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THE 


Lamp of the SANCXUARy. 

A TALE, 

By cardinal WISEMAN. 


AND OTHER STORIES, 
^electeli. 


BOSTON: 

THOMAS B. NOONAN & CO. 

17, 19, AND 21 Boyi.ston Street. 

1883. 






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COI^TEJS'TS, 


PAGE 

The Lamp of the Sanctuary 5 

The Young Fisherman 71 

The Silver Reliquary 93 

What a Child Can Do Ill 

The Young Musicians 121 

The Two Boys 137 

The Adventures of a Little Drummer . . 152 

Michael and his Dog 168 

The Two Friends 183 

The Little Adventurer ....... 198 

The Martyr’s Children . 215 

The Rose Tree 229 

The Story of a Pair of Boots 247 

The Story of a Watch 265 






CHAPTER L 


ITS BEIGHTNESS. 

“ Who will grant me that I might be according to the days 
in which God kept me, when His lamp shined over my head? 
(Job xxix. 2, 3.) 


j]^ the recesses of the Pyrenees, not far 
from the Spanish border, there was 
(our tale is of the last century) a small rural 
chapel, situated on a hill, known by the name 
of Mont-Marie. The chapel itself was simple 
and unpretending, solidly built, and of con- 
siderable antiquity. The inside was, however, 
richly adorned. The altar had silver furni- 
ture, and the walls round it were covered 
with votive tablets, and with silver donatives, 
hung in commemoration of favoi's piously be- 
lieved to have been received through the in- 

5 


6 


THE LAMP OP THE SANCTUARY. 


tercession of the blessed Mother of God, to 
whom the chapel was dedicated. Indeed, it 
was celebrated through the neighboring coun- 
try for many miles round as a place of great 
devotion, almost a pilgrimage. Over, but be- 
hind the altar, on which was a rich taberna- 
cle, stood an image of the spotless Virgin, 
bearing in her arms her Divine Son. It was 
nearly as large as life, of white marble, and of 
ancient workmanship. Every one who looked 
at it with a favorable light pronounced it a 
matchless piece of art, a work of highest in- 
spiration. Nothing could be more benign, 
more sweet, than the expression of the Moth- 
er, nothing more winning, yet more majestic, 
than the countenance of the Child. 

In the midst of the sanctuary, before the 
altar, was hung a silver lamp, as is usual in 
Catholic churches and oratories, burning day 
and night. Never, on the most tempestuous 
night, was it known to be extinguished ; for 
it was abundantly supi^lied, by the piety of 
the people, with the purest oil from the olive- 
yards of the country. And this to many of 
them was a matter of great importance. For 
the lamp was a beacon and a sure guide to 


THE LAMP OF THE SAN^CTUARY. 


7 


the traveller at night. It was, therefore, so 
hung that its bright radiance shone through a 
round window over the door, and could be 
seen to a great distance. The path which led 
from several hamlets to the main road in the 
valley passed near this chapel ; it was a nar- 
row, rugged track along the mountain’s side, 
skirting a precipice ; and the direction given 
to the traveller was to go boldly forward so 
long as the light of the chapel was visible be- 
fore him ; but so soon as it disappearc d by a 
jutting of a rock, to turn sharp to the right 
and fearlessly descend, as the precipice w^as 
now exchanged for a gentle slope that led to 
the wider road. So certain was this rule 
that no accident was remembered to have 
ever happened along that path. Thus did a 
beautiful symbolical rite of worship lend it- 
self to a most beneficial purpose, and become 
the cause of great social good ; thus did the 
altar of God send abroad its cheerful bright- 
ness to light up the dark and Avearisome path, 
(alas ! hoAV like that of life) ! and thus were 
the solitary traveller’s thoughts attracted to 
the sphere where his guiding-star burnt clear 
before the mercy-throne of the Lamb, there 


8 


THE LAMP OF THE SANCTUARY. 


to offer, in spirit, homage ; or led to think on 
that wakeful Eye of Providence which darts 
its ray from a higher sanctuary upon our joy- 
less way, to cheer and guide us thither. 

The chapel was under the care of a hermit 
priest, who lived in an humble dwelling be- 
side it, and ministered to the spiritual wants 
of the neighborhood, as the parish church was 
at some distance. 

On the road which we have described, and 
about two miles from the chapel, was a poor, 
small mountain hamlet, inhabited chiefly by 
woodmen who worked in the forests around. 
Among the cottages which composed it, one 
was remarkable for its neatness, though as 
poor as the rest ; and the young couple that 
occupied it were no less distinguished as the 
most industrious, the most virtuous, ‘and the 
happiest in the place. While Pierrot was 
sturdily working among the hills his wife 
Annette was sitting at her wheel spinning in- 
cessantly, unless busied with domestic cares ; 
while at her feet sat their only child, not yet 
three years old, but already giving tokens of 
great sense and virtue. Like every other 
child born under the tutelage of that chapel, 


THE LAMP OF THE SANCTUAKY. 


9 


she had been called at baptism Marie. The 
child was the delight of her parents, for Avith 
great liveliness of disj)osition and cheerful- 
ness, she united sweetness of temper and gen- 
tleness of mind. It may be easily imagined 
how they watched her every look with the 
anxiety of fond affection. 

It was Avith dismay, therefore, that about 
this time each parent observed a notable 
falling off in her good looks and in her spir- 
its. For some days neither durst speak on 
the subject to the other ; but at last it became 
manifestly necessary to call in medical advice, 
for the child Avas groAving every day paler 
and thinner, and Avas losing strength. But 
every effort of human skill proved vain, and 
the physician declared that nothing short of 
a miracle could save the child. The parents 
Avere disconsolate, and seemed distracted Avitli 
their grief, till, finding no comfort on earth, 
they turned their thoughts more fervently to 
heaven, Avhere, however, they had all along 
sought help. 

It Avas a .fine autumn evening Avhen the 
heartbroken parents Avere seen slowly Avalk- 
ing along the narroAV path we have described, 


10 THE LAMP OF THE SANCTUARY. 

evidently directing their steps toward Mont- 
Marie. The mother bore a precious burden 
in her arms, lighter indeed than the one she 
carried in her heart. It was her frail and 
sickly child carefully wrajDped ujj, though the 
afternoon was warm. 

When they reached the chapel it was still 
day, and many of the 23easantry were there 
making their evening visit as they returned 
from their work. The door was open, and 
the western sun streamed in full glory 
through it, and steeped the interior of the 
place with a golden lustre, giving to the 
paintings and hangings, and the bright orna- 
ments of the altar, a richness and magnificence 
truly royal. It seemed as if it was the hour 
of majesty, the time for urging great and 
noble suits at the tlirone of joower ; the pres- 
ence-chamber of the King of kings seemed gor- 
geously arrayed to hear the song of the joy- 
ful heart, and to dispense the treasures of re- 
dundant blessings. And each and every one 
of those 23easants, kneeling in scattered groups 
in fervent wor8hi23, scarcely able, to bear the 
dazzling S23arks of light Avliich the sunbeams 
struck from tlie silver tabernacle, was at that 


THE LAMP OF THE SANCTUAKY. 


11 


moment ennobled and graced beyond the 
richest and proudest of earth’s lords. Their 
rustic costume was embroidered by the gold- 
en pencil of heaven, their honest heads sur- 
rounded, and, in a manner, crowned by a flood 
of glory, and their countenances upturned 
with glowing features, and moistened eyes, 
towards that Presence, before which all earthly 
royalty is base. And now the organ pealed 
forth its powerful notes, and all united in 
a simple, but overpowering strain of evening 
thanksgiving. 

It was at this moment that Pierrot and his 
wife reached the threshold of the door ; and 
both instinctively paused as if unable to enter 
in. That sparkling light, that golden atmos- 
phere, those joyful looks, those swelling 
notes, accorded not with their errand, sympa- 
thized not with their hearts, jarred, broken, 
fretted as they were. They were not coming 
to urge high and peculiar claims, but to seek 
pity, mercy, and peace. In a moment, how- 
ever, they both felt confused at their appar- 
ent want of confidence ; and, assuming boldly 
the privilege ever granted by Catholic feel- 
ing to the distressed, advanced to the steps 


12 THE LAMP OF THE SANCTUARY. 

leading to the Sanctuary. 6n these the 
mother laid her helpless burden ; and both, 
kneeling down, covered their streaming eyes 
from the overpowering, though fading, 
splendor that oppressed them. Long, deep, 
and breathless was their prayer. During it 
the music had ceased, the peasants had one 
by one glided out, and the hermit having 
closed the door, and with it shut out the last 
dying reflection of the w^estern sky, whispered 
to the afflicted father as he retired, “ 1 have 
left the door unlocked ; stay as long as you 
please. Have courage, and may God com- 
fort you ; and, through the intercession of His 
blessed Mother, hear your prayers.” He was 
not like Heli that good hermit, who chid 
Anna in the temple because of her troubled 
supplication. 

At these words, both uncovered their faces 
and raised their eyes. They were alone with 
their child : a perfect silence reigned around 
them. There was no light but what was shed 
by the lamp of the Sanctuary between them 
and the altar. Hanging in mid-air, this 
seemed as a fountain of mildest radiance, not 
shot forth in rays, not scattered abroad in 


THE LAMP OF THE SANCTUARY. 


13 


fiery sparks, not playing wantonly in unsteady 
dame, but, softly and equably diffused from 
its source on every side, filling the centre of 
the holy place with a halo of serenest, purest 
light, and thence overflowing in a more sub- 
dued and blander stream into the remoter 
parts and angles of the roof and walls. It 
was a light that appeared to exert a stilling, 
hushing power on nature ; one could not con- 
ceive noise or disturbance going on under it ; 
a laugh, a harsh word, an angry murmur 
would have sounded sacrilegious, if they 
could have been possibly attempted. It cre- 
ated an atmosphere of its own ; as though 
that soft attempered light diffused a corre- 
sponding warmth through the air, which the 
frost without could not chill ; for no one could 
feel cold beneath its genial glow. It gave a 
softness and beauty to the commonest objects ; 
the rude memorials of benefits received that 
hung around, and the poor paintings, which 
adorned the upper parts of the walls, had 
their imperfect details concealed, and their 
more prominent features brought out in a 
subdued tone, that made them look like 
masterpieces of art ; and countenances which 


14 THE LAMP OF THE SANCTUARY. 

by day looked stern by this mild light were 
gentle and engaging. But it was on the in- 
ward feelings that its kindliest influence was 
shed. It seemed to kindle in the breast a 
holy light like unto itself, beaming serene and 
soothing over its disturbed affections, sub- 
duing pride and loftiness of spirit, calming 
anger, engentling austerity, and smoothing 
the folds of the crafty thought. It unrufiled, 
it softened, it melted the soul, and fitted it 
for tender and gentle emotions. 

And when, thus feeling all without them in 
perfect harmony with their own thoughts, the 
unhappy parents raised their eyes towards the 
image of their Redeemer and his Mother, the 
full radiance of that lamp upon it revealed 
features so full of love and compassion that 
never did this representation of them appear 
so lovely, or so truly a portrait of what in 
their hearts they now wished to find them 
both. For they felt that this was the hour 
for appeals for mercy and pity on distress ; 
here was the inner audience-chamber, w^here 
the petition of the poor would be kindly re- 
ceived face to face, whispered into the ear. 

Long and fervently did the parents pray 


THE LAMP OF THE SANCTUARY. 


15 


over their child under the solemn inspiration 
of the place and hour. There was more of 
depth in the father’s fervor, more of tender- 
ness in the mother’s ; but both made together 
a joint petition, they offered up a common 
vow. If the child recovered, she was for the 
next seven years to be clothed in white, as an 
emblem of dedication to the purest of maids, 
brought up ever in piety and devotion ; and 
her parents would fast once a week during the 
same period. 

‘‘Yes,” exclaimed Pierrot, in the simple^ 
poetry of nature, “ she shall be white and pure 
as the lily, whose root has been fed by the 
mountain snow ; she shall be as a flower be- 
fore the altar of God. She shall shine in His 
sanctuary as the lamp that now hangs over 
her; her virtues shall shed a mild lustre 
through the holy place, as she kneels in con- 
scious gratitude, where now she lies. Extin- 
guish not the light of our eyes ! and let not 
death presume to touch her now, consecrated 
to Thee, any more than a sacrilegious hand 
will ever dare to quench this holy flame that 
burns before Thine altar ! ” 

While the parents were engaged in prayer 


16 THE LAMP OF THE SANCTUARY. 

their child- seemed to be enjoying a slumber 
calmer and healthier than she had for several 
weeks ; and in this they saw the first symp- 
tom of recovery. It was late when they re- 
turned home, but the child still slept; and 
next morning she was evidently better. In a 
few more days she was at her usual place by 
her mother’s knee. She was now what is called 
in France vouee au hlaiic^ clothed entirely, 
according to vow, in virgin white. And as 
she grew from day to day in sense and virtue, 
so was she looked upon by all the good people 
in the neighborhood as one dedicated to God, 
and privileged by grace. Hence, by common 
accord, the place of honor seemed granted to 
her in church, the spot in the centre on which 
she had been laid in lier sickness. 

There, as she grew older, she would kneel 
immovable for hours, and when at dusk the 
crowd of peasants who filled the oratory, in 
the dark costume of the country, formed a 
confused mass, her form, arrayed in dazzling 
white, in the full radiance of the mystic lamp, 
slione bright and clear as if fulfilling her 
father’s prayer, and seemed itself to slied a 
light upon the darker objects around. In silent 


THE LAMP OF THE SANCTUARY. 17 

meditation and fervent prayer, in the soft 
glow of that sacred lamp, her heart, too, found 
delight. The glories of the evening sun, the 
clear splendor of the summer moon, had no 
charms for her like to its softened ray. It 
seemed to her to shed around a light so chaste 
and pure as could brook thoughts none but the 
holiest and most angelic ; nor could words, 
save the most warm and tender, bear to be 
breathed therein. Heavenly spirits seemed 
to bask in it, and the cherubs were playing on 
the cloud of glory that hung around the flame. 
ISTor was it to the eyes alone that this myste- 
rious and symbolical light appeared so beauti- 
ful. With it there seemed to come music to 
her ears, voices whispering prayer in accord- 
ance with hers, songs subdued and tender as 
of spirits striking softly upon golden harps. 
And it seemed to scatter ever the sweetest 
fragrance, a balm, an incense pure from every 
gross and earthly particle. In fine, no place 
to her appeared more closely allied to heaven, 
and no situation raised her on wings of holy 
desire so gently from earth, as did that lonely 
sanctuary, enjoyed in the light of its own dear 
star. 


18 THE LAMP OF THE SANCTUARY. 

It has been observed that persons living 
much together come to contract a certain re- 
semblance to one another, so as to be often 
taken for near relations ; and so did many 
think, that by frequent and long kneeling be- 
fore that beautiful image of the spotless Virgin 
Mother, with gaze intent upon it in that mild 
light, her features gradually moulded them- 
selves into the same meek and modest expres- 
sion, as though she were the living, as that was 
the lifeless portrait, of the same original. 



CHAPTEE IL 

ITS DARKENING. 

*‘May the counsel of the wicked be far from me. How 
often shall the lamp of the wicked he put out, and a deluge 
come upon them, and He shall distribute the sorrows of His 
wrath.” (Job xxi. 17.) 

I jrjmiEARLY six years had now passed over 
t^l since the vow was spoken ; and they 
had been years all of joy and happiness, when 
a change came over the household of Pierrot, 
which blighted it sadly, and brought with it 
sorrow and woe. 

A little before this time two strange men 
came with their families to settle in the neigh- 
borhood. They were a rough set, and no one 
knew anything about them. They took a 
piece of land at some distance from any other 
dwelling, and built themselves large huts of 
timber, much like those of others ; but while 
they were working at them they seemed jeal- 
ous of any one’s coming to look at them ; and 

19 


20 THE LAMP OF THE SANCTUAKY. 

when they were finished they never invited 
any one inside. The men did not seem to 
have any particular occupation, and the women 
w§re idle and slovenly ; yet they always 
seemed to be better off than their neighbors, 
and on Sundays made a very dashing appear- 
ance. Nobody knew what to think of them, 
but it was clear there was some mystery about 
them. 

A few months after they had settled there, 
a sensible alteration in the character of 
Pierrot was observable by his wife and daugh- 
ter. He went to his work with less cheerful- 
ness, and got apparently through with much 
less of it, for his earnings clearly fell off. He 
was thoughtful and reserved, almost moody, 
and for the first time had evidently a painful 
secret which he concealed from his family. 
Instead of returning home as soon as his work 
was done to enjoy their society, they would 
have to wait for some hours in silent grief, and 
when he came in, he was cold and silent, and 
made some poor excuse for his lateness. At 
length one day when he went to work, he said 
to his wife : “ Annette, I shall probably not 
return till very late to-night — so don’t sit up 


THE LAMP OF THE SANCTUARY. 


21 


for me. I have important business which may- 
even detain me all night.” He gave no time 
for remonstrance, but hurried forth. Oh ! 
what a sorrowful day was that for mother and 
daughter ! they scarcely spoke all day, and 
each tried to hide her tears from the other ; 
for the child, though eight years of age, had 
sense enough to know that things were going 
fearfully wrong. Towards evening, therefore, 
both, guided by the same impulse, took the 
road towards Mont-Marie, to pour forth their 
grief and seek consolation at the foot of the 
altar. There Marie knelt in her usual place 
behind the lamp ; she raised her eyes and her 
heart, and was soon absorbed in meditation. 
And her meditation was this : — 

She thought of the desolate home which 
awaited the blessed Mother of our Lord as she 
descended from Calvary ; the joyless cham- 
ber, the restless couch, prepared for her after 
a day of anguish and of blight. There, com- 
paring sorrow with sorrow, how trifling ap- 
peared her own affliction beside hers ! There, 
eyes that fall on garments sprinkled from the 
wine-press, trodden that day, of God’s justice ; 
there, ears that yet ring with the clang of the 


22 


THE LAMP OF THE SANCTUARY. 


hammer forcing nails through the quivering 
flesh ; there, a heart pierced through with a 
sword of grief, panting to its core wdth the 
keenest of maternal sorrows ; there, body and 
soul staggering under a weight of anguish 
that would have crushed a frame of iron and 
a mind of adamant, but can be borne up by 
her unresisting patience. And in the thought 
of such an ocean of sorrows, how small a drop 
did those appear to that child of grace, which 
the heavenly Father had allotted her ! And 
now, after each kind friend that has accompa- 
nied this sovereign Lady to her humble home 
has departed, she sees lier left at last alone in 
the silence of night, with the lamp (fed per- 
hajDS from the garden of Gethsernane), beaming 
upon her pale countenance, on which that day 
has written more of woe than years had traced 
before, glittering in tear after tear, as it 
trickles from her dimmed celestial eye, watch- 
ing alone beside her, sole thing that cheers and 
sheds a ray of comfort through the dreary 
chamber and the drearier heart. And, in her 
childish thoughts, she blessed that pale and 
trembling light which then gave Mary com- 
fort ; and felt as though the little flame above 


THE LAMP OF THE SANCTUARY. 


23 


her, shining now upon her and upon the sa- 
cred representation of that Queen of Sorrows 
before her, were the faithful representative 
and descendant of tliat which then lighted up 
and cheered her sanctuary at home. Its calm 
twilight thus exercised its soothing influence 
on the innocent child’s spirit, and associated 
her afflictions with the holiest that earth had 
ever witnessed. She felt as though she suf- 
fered in company with the noblest and bless- 
edest among women ; and the total darkness 
which had before overspread her soul was 
lighted up by a cheering ray, mild, serene, and 
pure as that which tempted the shadows of 
night within that sanctuary. She felt that she 
could return to her desolate liome, with resig- 
nation at least, after what she had contem- 
plated. 

But before she rose from prayer, she had 
made an offering to the Almighty, through 
the hands of the Blessed Virgin, which she 
did not tell to her mother for some time after. 
She felt as though it was accepted, and she 
was comforted. 

Let it not be thought that we have de- 
scribed conduct or feelings beyond the age of 


24 THE LAMP OF THE SANCTUARY. 

such a child. In the world we ordinarily have 
no idea of the maturity of grace to which 
children brought up under the Church’s wings 
are sometimes brought by Him who “ out of 
the mouths of babes and sucklings bringeth 
forth perfect praise.” W e hear often amongst 
us of j)recocious talent, seldom of precocious 
virtue ; yet one is as natural in its own order 
as the other. But not only do the lives of 
Saints, as those of St. Rose of Lima, St. Mary 
Magdalen de’ Pazzi, St. Catherine of Siena, 
present us with instances of intelligence and 
spiritual illumination in even an earlier age, 
but at this day are yet such examples to be 
found, and that within the compass of our own 
knowledge. And if parents, mothers in par- 
ticular, knew how to train their children from 
the cradle for God; if instead of fondling 
their infant humors, and caressing their very 
passions and caprices, they turned the first 
dawn of their reason to the knowledge and 
consideration of the Divine goodness; and 
shaped their lips to utter as first sounds the 
two sweetest names in human speech, many 
who now have to weep over the follies and 
vices of their offspring might be thanking God 


THE LAMP OF THE SANCTUARY. 25 

instead, for having blessed their family with a 
Saint. 

But to proceed : when the mother and 
daughter returned home, they were far better 
able to encounter the melancholy of their cot- 
tage than when they left it ; nor did its gloom 
appear so deep, especially to the latter. She 
seemed almost cheerful, as she bade her 
mother put her trust in God and in the inter- 
cession of his Blessed Mother. It was late 
next morning when Pierrot suddenly entered, 
with a pale and haggard look ; cast a purse 
upon the table at which his wife and daughter 
were sitting, and hurried without uttering a 
word into his bedroom. They both gazed 
long in silent amazement at the unwonted 
sight ; and when Pierrot after a few hours’ 
troubled rest came back, he was surprised and 
mortified at finding his purse lying untouched 
where he had thrown it. 

“ What is the meaning of this ? ” he asked 
with some bitterness. “Do you take that 
purse for some venomous animal, that you 
have been afraid to touch it ? ” 

“Pierrot,” answered his wife, “how is it 
come by ? ” 


26 THE LAMP OF THE SAXCTUAEY. 


“ Honestly, I assure you,” he replied. You 
do not, I hope, think me capable of theft or 
robbery ? ” 

‘‘ God forbid ! ” rejoined his wife, ‘‘ but you 
have done very little work of late ; and it 
would take__long in your craft, even with great 
industry, to amass such a sum. A purseful 
like that, got in one night, looks, you will own, 
to say the least, suspicious.” 

Then make yourselves easy,” said Pierrot, 
“ it is honestly come by. I have fallen in with 
acquaintances, who have put me into the way 
of a successful commercial speculation ; and 
these I hope are only its first fruits.” 

The poor woman was glad to receive the 
comfort of his words. But, though she looked 
contented and put up the purse, she could not 
bring herself to use its contents. She re- 
doubled her industry, and wore herself to 
death at her wheel, to kee]^ up appearances 
and ward off famine; but neither she nor her 
daughter would touch the suspicious gold. 
And often would Pierrot bring more, after 
having been out a night, and sometimes two 
and the intervening day ; and yet the store re- 
mained untouched. For one sign was in 


THE LAMP OF THE SANCTUAKY. 


27 


their eyes decisive ; Pierrot was no longer the 
same. He neglected every religious duty, was 
seldom at church except on the Sunday, and 
then seemed to have no pleasure in its duties. 

Once it happened that his little daughter 
enticed him in the afternoon to Mont-Marie, 
where, taking her usual place, she prayed earn- 
estly for him, and renewed the offering of 
herself before alluded to ; she prolonged her 
prayer beyond dusk, by the favorite light of 
the Sanctuary lamp ; but on rising from her 
knees she found her father gone. He was 
waiting outside, and on her affectionately re- 
monstrating with him on his impatience in 
leaving the church, he replied : — 

“ For my part, I wonder how you can stay 
so long, and pray by that dim and dismal light. 
By it the church looked to me like a dark se- 
pulchral vault, so gloomy and opjDressive. 
The pictures on the walls stared at me like so 
many ghosts, or appeared to frown upon me. 
It made even the image of the Blessed Virgin 
look cold and stern. I could not stand it, and 
came out to breathe a mouthful of fresh air.” 

The child sighed, and said, “ Ah ! dearest 
father, you used not to speak so. There must 


28 THE LAMP OF THE SANCTUAEY. 

be something amiss in that breast that loves 
not, or dares not, to pray by the still light of 
the Sanctuary’s lami3 ! ” 

Pierrot walked home in silence, and for 
some weeks was more steady at his work. 
But he soon relapsed into his former habits, 
and even extended his absence from home to 
longer periods ; to weeks instead of days. It 
is time, however, that we explain the cause of 
his unhappy change. The new-comers to his 
neighborhood, whom we have mentioned, be- 
longed to a rough and unprincipled class, that 
hang (especially in mountain districts) about 
the frontiers of foreign countries. They were 
contrabandists or smugglers, who contracted, 
for a certain profit, to carry French goods 
over the Spanish border without paying duty ; 
and this was often done by large j^arties on a 
great scale, in sjiite of the vigilance of revenue 
officers, whom they did not scruple to attack 
and fight in case of surprise. These two men 
and their families were old offenders and ex- 
perienced hands. Being too well known at 
their former station, and having observed, in 
the neighborhood of Mont-Marie, passes com- 
paratively but slightly guarded, in conse- 


THE LAMP OF THE SANCTUARY. 


29 


qiience of the honesty of the peasantry, they 
had determined to turn the circumstance to 
their advantage, and came to settle in that 
neighborhood. But to succeed, they saw it 
was necessary to get some one to join them 
who was well acquainted with every nook and 
track among the crags and mountains ; and 
having taken some time to pick up acquaint- 
ance with the characters of their neighbors, 
they fixed upon jDOor Pierrot as their victim, 
not only as he was an expert mountaineer, but 
because his very gentleness of character, the 
result of his virtue, would enable them, could 
they but once corrupt him, to keep him more 
completely under their jDOwer than one of a 
rougher and sterner cast. 

They began, therefore, artfully to insinuate 
themselves into his familiarity and friendship, 
by expressing an interest in him and his fam- 
ily, and their pity at seeing him toiling all day 
for a paltry pittance, when by commercial un- 
dertakings, sure of success, he could put him- 
self in far better circumstances. Pierrot 
listened at first with indifference, and then 
with curiosity, which soon grew up into eager- 
ness, to their tempting suggestions. At 


80 THE LAMP OP THE SANCTUARY. 

length they unfolded their schemes more 
openly, and he was startled. But for this they 
were prepared ; and after the first shock was 
over, they began to remove his scruples. They 
told him speciously that they were French sub- 
jects, and consequently not bound by the 
Spanish laws, which alone forbade the intro- 
duction of goods across the boundary ; that, 
consequently, with them this could not be 
wrong, but was merely a commercial S23ecula- 
tion, attended with risk of seizure, just like a 
venture in time of war, or a shij^’s freight sent 
through the boisterous ocean in whiter. 

Pierrot was at last engaged to join in one 
of their expeditions ; they took care that it 
should be a safe, easy, and pleasant one ; and 
he received as his share of the profit the jDurse 
which he threw on the table of his cottage. 
Although his conscience was ill at ease, the 
love of money had now struck dee|3 root in 
his heart ; and he was soon so surrounded with 
the toils of his artful seducers that he had no 
longer strength to disentangle himself or to 
break through them. Such is the history of 
many a weak but good mind that has but 
listened to the arts of a deceiver. Its very 


THE LAMP OF THE SANCTUARY. 31 


goodness makes it an unequal match for well- 
trained cunning and daring profligacy. After 
its first fall its powers are broken, and it allows 
itself to be led by the will of the ensnarer. 

After Pierrot’s visit, described above, to the 
Sanctuary of Mont-Marie, his companions, 
afraid of his escape from them, and of his 
betraying them, determined to involve him still 
deeper in crime. First, when they had again 
prevailed on him to join them, they took him 
upon a more venturesome expedition, which, 
as they had foreseen, led to an encounter with 
the revenue-guard ; shots were fired, blows 
were struck, and the pass was forced by sheer 
violence. A few days after placards were 
posted in all the neighboring villages, offering 
rewards for the discovery of the offenders, 
with free pardon to accomplices who should 
betray them. Pierrot’s tyrants next showed 
him these, and threatened, on his first attempt 
to dispute their will, to carry him over the 
frontier, and deliver him to the authorities. 

He was now their victim, their tool in any 
wicked enterprise. He had no longer a will 
of his own ; he seemed to have delivered his 
very soul into their hands, and there was no 


32 THE LAMP OF THE SANCTUARY. 

extent of crime, short of murder, to which 
they did not lead him at their ideasure. 
They had at length ventured to unveil to him 
their real characters, as outlaws and banditti. 
They made him join them in their midnight 
robberies ; but he sickened at the very 
thoughts of polluting his once haj^py dwelling 
with the fruit of his villainies ; he refused a 
share in the spoils, and whenever he returned 
home, it was only with more haggard looks, 
more tortured conscience, and an empty 
purse. 

He loathed his very life, he gnawed his very 
heart in sorrow, and the most desperate 
thoughts, even of self-destruction, began to 
haunt his mind. His companions saw him 
sometimes looking over the edge of a preci- 
pice, as if deliberating whether to throw him- 
self headlong, or feeling the point of a dag- 
ger, as if meditating a self-aimed blow. But 
a cold shudder would creep over his frame ; 
he would draw suddenly back, or cast the 
Aveapon away; Avhile his companions would 
break into a coarse peal of laughter, and dare 
him to accomplish his tliought. Yes, thanks 
to Heaven, Pierrot had not yet lost his belief 


THE LAMP OF THE SANCTUARY. 


88 


in eternity ; he remembered tliat there was a 
bottomless gulf below the depths of the preci- 
pice, and that there was a sword of divine jus- 
tice keener than the dagger’s point. 

But his companions saw that they would 
soon lose their hold on him, that his despera- 
tion would drive him to some deed that would 
betray them. They, tlierefore, with artful 
villany changed their course. They assured 
him of tlieir willingness to release him from his 
painful life. One, only one, more entei’iDrise 
did they require him to join — it was an easy 
and safe one ; and after that they would quit 
the neighborhood, and he should be left at 
peace. At peace ! little did, they know, or 
care, how effectually they liad driven this from 
his heart, how they had banished it from his 
life ! Still, to him there was comfort in their 
words; and he almost longed to commit the 
crime which was to be his last. A day was 
fixed for it, yet a month off, and this seemed 
like an age to Pierrot. 'Nor could any en- 
treaties prevail on them to communicate to 
him the nature of their intention. Only he 
clearly saw preparations making at their 
houses for a complete and sudden flight ; and 


34 THE LAMP OF THE SANCTUARY. 


in this he felt he had the best pledge and 
security for the truth of their 2 )romises. 

Let us, in the meantime, return to consider 
his poor wife and child. Every month of the 
period, over which w^e have traced Pierrot’s 
evil course, had sunk them dee 2 :)er in misery 
and in sorrow. Of the character of his crimes 
they had no evidence ; for as ho never 
brought home his share of 2 dunder, and as 
he ke23t a moody silence and reserve, they 
had no ground on which to sus23ect farther 
than that he w^as engaged in something very 
wrong. Even when at home, he could get but 
little work, for now no one cared to em23loy 
him ; and so his once neat and hap2:)y dwell- 
ing bore marks of 230verty, neglect, and decay. 
And within, too, all was sorrow and distress ; 
no cheerful conversation, no smile, no confi- 
dence. Tiie mother and the daughter, indeed, 
understood one another, but it was more by 
silent sym23athy than by exchange of senti- 
ment ; for each feared ever to swell the other’s 
grief, and generally stifled her inward feelings, 
and re 2 :>ressed the gushing tear, or we 2 Jt alone. 
And let this be added to the 2 waises of the 
poor, that none better than they have the 


THE LAMP OF THE SANCTUARY. 


35 


inborn delicacy to honor virtue in distress and 
refrain from sarcasm and reproach against 
those whom bitter trials oj^press. Never was 
the conduct of Pierrot, though now notorious 
and a public scandal, cast into the face of 
these two forlorn ones, morally indeed a 
widow and an orphan. But rather it seemed 
as if a tacit honor was paid to their suffering 
innocence ; every one made way for them ; 
every one seemed to soften his voice as he ad- 
dressed them ; many a little present, artfully 
conveyed, so as to repress all sense of obli- 
gation, made its way to their cottage to soothe 
their distress ; and many a kind hope that 
God would console them, was whispered at the 
church door in their ear. 

And He did, in truth console them ; for with- 
out His Presence, His Grace, His Light, His 
Food, their hearts would long since have been 
broken by despairing sorrow. Again and 
again did they kneel at evening before the 
altar, and there ever found they the calm and 
peace which resignation to the Divine Will 
alone can give. It was on one of these occa- 
sions that a new association of ideas led our 
little contemplative to consoling thoughts, 


86 THE LAMP OF THE SANCTUARY. 

akin to those whicli we have seen the Sanc- 
tuary’s lam 23 liad before suggested ; only 
from the sorrows of the Mother, it guided her 
to those of the Son. She had been reading 
in her little rude 2 ^i<-‘ture-bible, and had there 
seen illustrated the vision of Zacharias (cha}). 
iv.), in which is described the golden candle- 
stick before the altar, on either side whereof 
stands an olive tree, the overhanging branches 
of which, through golden funnels, feed the 
sacred lamj^s with an unfailing light and 
unction (verse 12). To this her thoughts re- 
vei’ted as the soothing light of the lam}) fell 
upon her ; and wearied much with sorrow, she 
fell into one of those calm moods of medita- 
tion, in which the thoughts arise sjDontaneously, 
and i^ass, as on a mirror, before the mind, 
seeming but the reflection of objects i^resented 
by an external, but invisible power. It a}3- 
peared to her as though the lamp before the 
altar were enlarged in its dimensions, and be- 
came a golden font, in the midst of which 
burnt a flame, celestial in ks }3urity and bright- 
ness ; while over its edge flowed on every 
side, a rich amber wave of }3urest oil, some of 
which was caught up by unseen hands in 


THE LAMP OF THE SANCTUARY. 


37 


golden phials, and borne away as a precious 
treasure into the Church’s stores ; whence dis- 
pensed, in a triple stream, it hallowed the 
child, consecrated the high priests of God, 
and anointed the dying wrestler against the 
powers of hell ; while some fell in drops like 
balm upon her and others, and where it fell 
closed a wound, or healed a sore, or soothed 
a pain, or stilled a throb. It dropped upon 
her lips, and it was bitter with the bitterness 
of myrrh, but withal savory, and as a cordial 
to her breast. Then as she wondered whence 
came this marvellous overflow of abundance 
(like the filling of the widow of Sarepta’s ves- 
sels), she saw above a branch of a dark and 
gloomy olive, which overhung it, and distilled 
into it, from its purple fruit, thick, clammy 
drops of healing juice. And when again she 
wondered whence this chosen plant derived 
its sacred sap, she looked naturally down to- 
wards its twisted roots, and there beheld One 
prostrate as in anguish and prayer. His face 
could not be seen, for His pale forehead 
touched the ground ; but His dark robe seemed 
as studded with princely gems, rubies, or 
carbuncles, of sparkling brightness. And by 


38 THE LAMP OF THE* SANCTUARY. 

degrees these increased in size and began to 
flow, thickening, as. a dew, upon that conse- 
crated ground. For they were the first life- 
drops, earnest of a fuller floAv, which burst 
through those pores, whence virtue went out 
to heal all. By these was fed and enriched, 
while it was hallowed, that tree which first, 
after the deluge, put forth branches of prom- 
ise, of peace, and of hope, and sent by the 
dove the first tidings of reconciliation to the 
world baptized. And hence tlie fruit of that 
tree was made third in order of the earth’s 
most precious produce, joined ever to the 
‘‘ corn and the wine ” in the threats and in 
the promises of j)rophecy, * and forming wdth 
them the triple power, whereby men are multi- 
plied and strengthened in sacramental life, t 
To that thoughtful child’s heart there seemed 
as clear connection between this consecration 
and its fruits as there was between our Lord’s 
descending into the waters of Jordan, and 
the mystical sanctification of that cleansing 
element. The olive consecrated by the holy 

* Dent. xi. 14 ; and xxviii. 51, Jer. xxxi. 12. Os. ii. 8. 

t Ps. iv. 8. “By the fruit of their corn, wine, and oil, they 
have been multiplied. 


THE LAMP OF THE SANCTUARY. 


39 


unction of our Redeemer’s first blood, became 
to the Church a sacred tree, whose juice can 
soften, nourish, heal, render at once supple and 
strong, the soul sacramentally, as the body 
naturally, and alone is fit, with the produce of 
the ind ustry of the virgin bee, to light up the 
Sanctuary of God.* These musings of the 
sorrowful child brought their consolation, by 
leading her thoughts to that scene of sorrow, 
in which even agony of mind may learn re- 
signation. And this thought struck her. If 
in the courts of the heavenly Jerusalem it shall 
be said to holy virgins, spouses of the Lamb, 
“ God, thy God, has anointed thee with the 
oil of gladness,” shall it not be said that here 
below there is an oil of afflictioii^ too, with 
which the servants of God are anointed, and 
rendered thereby no less pleasing ? And happy 
the virgin who, waiting for her Bridegroom, 
has her lamp trimmed with this holy oil, ay, 

* To burn gas (as the lamp) before the altar, or upon it, is 
not only in contradietion to every mystical feeling and sym- 
bolical principle, but seems positively unbecoming. With 
what can it associate the mind except with the bituminous 
and sulphurous classes of natural productions, and with the 
exhalations of the depths of the earth — things and places 
more akin to the awful, than to the consoling, dealings of 
God with man ? 


40 THE LAMP OF THE SANCTUARY. 

and plenty of it in her vessel, too, lest it be 
extinguished. And if it fail her, oh ! let her 
hasten in time thitlier, where best it can be 
found and procured, to the Mount of Olives, 
the hill of unction and of light. 

While the youthful contemplative was en- 
joying these thoughts, and praying that her 
lamp might be found burning whenever the 
summons should come, her mother touched 
her shoulder, and admonished her that it was 
time to return home. The visions of her child- 
ish imagination melted away, and she found 
herself once more basking in the mild lustre 
of the Sanctuary’s lamp. ; 




: CHAPTER III. 

ITS EXTINCTION. 

•* The light shall be dark in his tabernacle, and the lamp that 
is over him shall be put out.” (Job xviii.) 

D T is a trite remark, that as a lamp will 
shine the more brightly in i^roportion 
to the darkness which snrrouncls it, so will 
virtue appear more brilliant when the gloom 
of adversity has closed around it. Or, still 
drawing our illustration from our subject, we 
may say, that as the lamps of Gideon’s sol- 
diers did not show their dazzling brilliancy till 
the vessels of clay in which they were enclosed 
had been bruised, broken, and utterly crushed, 
so did the virtues of Pierrot’s wife and 
daughter break forth with increased lustre the 
more their poor humanity was bowed down, 
the more their bodies were wasted with want, 
and their hearts broken with affliction. Upon 

41 


42 THE LAMP OP THE SANCTUARY. 


that of the daughter a new grief seemed now 
to liave come ; but tliougli it passed occa- 
sionally like a cloud over her brow, sufficiently 
distinct not to escape her watchful mother’s 
eye, yet was it always succeeded immediately 
by a bright serenity, Avhich clearly came not 
from earthly consolation. While they were 
sitting together at their work in silence, a 
sigh would escape her, a tear would steal 
down ; but the next instant her hands would 
drop upon her knees, her eyes and counte- 
nance be upturned toward heaven, a bright 
smile would beam upon her features, and her 
lips would move as if addressing some one 
near. In those moments her mother ventured 
not to address her, but would gaze on her 
in admiration and awe, believing her to be in 
close communion with better spirits. 

At length, one day she asked her what now 
so much occupied her thoughts. “ I will con- 
ceal nothing from you, my dearest mother,” 
replied the child ; “ the truth is, I can hardly 
bear to think that in a few days my term of 
consecration, under your vow, will expire, and 
that I must put off my white garment, and 
resume that of the world.” 


THE LAMP OF THE SANCTUARY. 


43 


‘‘And yet, mycliild,” her mother answered, 
“ it is better for us all that it should be so. You 
are now c^etting: strong: enoug:]i to geo to work 
in the fields, and this is impossible in your 
present attire. Nor can I go and leave you 
alone at home. It is indeed necessary that 
we should exert ourselves more and more ; 
for ” — she paused, for what she w'as going to 
say would have been a reproach to her hus- 
band, and that slie would not utter. But her 
tears expressed her meaning. Her daughter 
replied : — 

“ It is not that I grudge toil, or shrink from 
being what I in truth am, a poor peasant girl ; 
but I feel as though, in putting off this reli- 
gious attire, I should be exposing myself more 
completely to the dangers and temptations of 
the world ; and, perhaps losing some claim to 
that protection of the Queen of Heaven, as 
whose child I have been till now brought up. 

“ But it is time, my dear mother, that I 
should tell you of an offering which I made 
on that night wdien, for the first time, he ab- 
sented himself from home, and have often 
since repeated before the altar. There I have 
again and again j^i’^yed that I may never be 


44 THE LAMP OF THE SANCTUARY. 


allowed to put off my white garments, but 
may be allowed to bear them down into my 
grave unstained, and farther ” — she hesitated 
and faltered as she added, — “ I have begged of 
God to take my life in exchange for my dear 
father’s conversion and return to virtue. I 
cannot help hoping that my prayer and offer- 
ing have been accepted.” 

Her mother was greatly troubled on hear- 
ing this, and hastily answered, “Beware, my 
child, lest you tempt Heaven. May God hear 
your prayer on behalf of your poor father, but 
not on that condition. Indeed,” she added, 
after a moment’s reflection, do not see 
what reason there can be to fear it ; for never, 
in spite of our sufferings, did you seem to me 
stronger or in better health.” 

It was now, notwithstanding, finally ar- 
ranged between mother and daughter, that on 
the morning of the anniversary of the vow 
they should proceed very early to the church, 
so to enjoy a few hours’ silent prayer, by the 
light of the sacred lamp, which the child 
loved so much, before receiving Communion 
in thanksgiving; after which, she would 
change her white dress for the ordinary peas- 


THE LAMP OF THE SAIS^CTUARY. 


45 


ant’s cloak and so return home. And these 
preliminaries arranged, and the priest’s con- 
sent obtained, who was to leave the church 
door open for them, they both forbore to 
revert again to the subject. Only Marie 
seemed ever intent on it, in her thoughts, now 
occupied in preparing the dress in which she 
would make her last appearance, as one con- 
secrated to God, that its whiteness and iDurity 
might be perfect ; and in weaving a garland 
of choicest flowers, as her last offering, to 
crown the image of her Lady and Patroness. 

But once again we must withdraw our 
reader’s attention from the contemplation of 
the virtues of mother and daughter, to trace 
the ruinous course of the unfortunate Pierrot, 
and see him plunged, at last, into the lowest 
abyss of guilt and degradation. The month 
was exj^ired, which had been agreed on before 
the commission of the crime i^romised to be 
his last. The day in fact was come, on the 
night of which it had to be perpetrated, and 
still an impenetrable secret was preserved by 
all around him as to what it was to be. By 
this time, everything worth moving in the 
liouse of the two accomplices, was packed up 


46 THE LAMP OF THE SANCTUARY. 

for instant flight, and mules were in readiness 
to carry their baggage and families over the 
frontiers. As to himself, he had not taken any 
measures, to fly or to secure himself against 
the pursuit of justice ; not merely because he 
was in such ignorance about the crime, that 
he knew not how he could best shaj^e his 
course, especially with his family on his hands ; 
but also, because he was almost reckless as to 
consequences, and hardly cared what the result 
might be. A prey to remorse, to shame, and 
to bitter grief, lie would liave preferred a 
prison, the galleys, or the scaffold to his pres- 
ent state ; and forgot all consequences and 
risks in the assurance that, after this one 
crime, he should be freed from his present 
thraldom. During that last day of his part- 
nership in guilt, his companions strove to oc- 
cupy his thoughts and divert him from un- 
pleasant anticipations by their wild discourse ; 
and after their meal they plied him wdtli 
drink, which, if it did not actually intoxicate 
him, dulled his faculties, and heated his blood. 
Pie was ready for anything, and he seemed to 
have made uj^ his mind for any crime, in a 
desperate mood of excitement, almost amount- 


THE LAMP OF THE SANCTUARY. ,, 47 

ing to frenzy. And still he shuddered within 
himself at thinking that possibly murder 
might be demanded from him ; no other 
wicked deed now seemed to him terrible or 
impossible. And yet, when the proposed 
crime was unveiled to him, it was as much 
beyond his thoughts as this, and appeared to 
him no less frightful ; and he shrank from it 
with a trembling horror that staggered his 
very companions. 

It was not till late that night, when on the 
point of starting from their house, that the 
object of their expedition was revealed to 
Pierrot. It was no less than to plunder the 
church of Mont-Marie, to strip it of its silver 
donatives, its rich altar-plate, the ornaments 
of its image and its tabernacle, and carry the 
whole over the frontier into Spain. They had 
made all necessary arrangements for conceal- 
ing or melting down their rich booty, so as to 
escape detection. 

Had a thunderbolt struck the head of the 
unfortunate Pierrot he could hardly have been 
more stunned than he was on hearing this. 
The moment he was a little recovered from 
his first amazement he began to storm and 


48 THE . LAMP OF THE SANCTUARY, 

protest that no consideration on earth should 
ever prevail on him to commit so horrible and 
so ungrateful a sacrilege. But his companions 
now knew their power, and dealt with him as 
a skilful angler does with a fish that feels the 
first smart of tlie hook; they gave him play, 
and allowed him to vent his feelings ; and 
then, when he had exhausted his fir^t burst of 
passion, began to draw him into the full grijD 
of their wicked might. For this purpose, they 
represented to him that it was too late to 
draw back — for if he attempted it, they 
would imnidiately fulfil their threats of deliv- 
ering him up. They told him that it was 
mere folly to shrink from the commission of 
one crime more, which they had promised him 
should be his last ; that if ever he repented, it 
would be as easy to repent of this as of its 
predecessors ; if not, that he was fully lost by 
what he had already done, and could not make 
his case worse. Many other wicked argu- 
ments and persuasions they employed, and 
when at last all else had failed, they savagely 
threatened to wreak their vengeance upon his 
family, and to proceed at once to murder his 
wife and daughter. 


THE LAMP OF THE SxlNCTUARY. 


49 


They Iiad two motives for this cruel ear- 
nestness in wisliing to have him as their ac- 
complice. First, from his conversations they 
had ascertained that he knew accurately what 
was of real and what of apparent value among 
the ornaments of the church ; what Avas really 
of silver and Avhat only of baser metal, as he 
Iiad often assisted as voluntary sacristan there 
in his better days. They, on the contrary, 
had never taken more than a cursory glance 
at the riches accumulated in the sanctuary — 
enough to inflame their desires but not to 
guide them in the selection of spoil. But, 
farther, they had a still baser and blacker 
motive ; they had only valued Pierrot as a 
tool, and having no farther use for his active 
services after that night, it Avas their intention 
to make him serviceable as a victim, by flying 
themselves, and leaving him behind to be 
seized on by public justice, so themselves to 
elude its pursuit. His connection Avith them, 
Avho Avould, of course, be suspected, and the 
Aveakness of his character, Avhich Avould make 
him at once OAvn his guilt, Avould bring down 
upon him the vengeance of the la\v% Avhicli 
would thus be less eager in its search after 


50 THE LAMP OF THE SAXCTUABY. 


them. Such were tlie fiendish feelings of his 
companions for liim ; such, in other words, is 
the friendship) of the wicked ! 

The terrible menace of the ruffians was 
littered ivith such rage, and yet in so deter- 
•mined a tone, that, with Pierrot’s experience 
of their character, he saw it was made in ear- 
nest, and would be unscrupulously carried into 
execution. His resolution failed him; the 
thought of all his past neglect and cruel aban- 
donment of those whom in his secret heart he 
still loved and actually reverenced rushed 
upon him. Must he in the end prove their 
death, their murderer in some sort? He could 
not bear to think of it, and in an agony of con- 
tending feelings, and with a protest to 
heaven, he chose what he thought the lesser 
curse, and consented to accompany his ty- 
rants. 

Time urged, for they had lost much of the 
night in this contention ; but still it wanted 
some hours to day, and the robbers durst not 
" now put off their enterprise. Silent and sul- 
len they reached the church-door, and it was 
agreed that.one should stay outside with the 
mule, and keep watch, while the leader with 


THE LAMP OF THE SANCTUARY. 


51 


Pierrot should enter and bring out the 
spoil. 

Tliey found the door unlocked ; but this did 
not surprise them ; for no one in the neigh- 
borhood ever dreamt of the possibility of sac- 
rilege. Cautiously and silently they 023ened 
it, and entered in. Both j)aused ujDon the 
threshold, as if overawed ; even the hardened 
robber seemed afraid to advance. So deej^ly 
still and silent was that lonely sanctuary that 
Pierrot could actually hear his heart beat 
against his side, as it throbbed in remorse and 
fear. The flame of the lam]) was burning 
bright and clear, and the entire holy place 
basked in its tempered radiance. Never, in 
his days of virtue, had it looked to him more 
sacred, more venerable, or more lovely than 
it did on this night of his basest treachery ! 
Never did the silver and jewels of the altar 
beam more joyously, never did the saints from 
the walls look down upon him more softly, 
never did the image over the altar seem to 
gaze upon liim with a sweeter, blander smile, 
than now that his mind was bent on sacrilege ! 
‘‘Ah, Judas ! ” they all seemed to say to liim 
in words of soft reproof, “ wilt thou betray the 


52 THE LAMP OF THE SANCTUARY. 


spouse of the Son of Man with a kiss ?” He 
could not bear the sight, and he cast his eyes 
upon the ground ; and there lie thought he 
saw his infant child, as she lay seven years be- 
fore on the steps before him, slumbering once 
more the sleep of health, and himself kneeling 
in quiet gratitude beside her. Yes, everything 
around him looked to him now just as it did 
then — alb except his own breast ; alas ! how 
changed was that ! He flung his vision, by a 
forcible effort from his imagination, and raised 
his eyes ; and in doing so, encountered the 
steady gaze of the lamp, which shed all this 
beauty and mysterious charm on every object. 
What the eye of a man — “ the light of his 
body” — is to his other features, even that 
did the pure solitary flame of the Sanctuary’s 
lamp appear to Pierrot’s mind : it was its eye, 
through which it looked keenly yet mildly 
upon him ; as if to see whether or no he would 
have heart to do his wicked deed. Whatever 
si^ell there is in the human eye to arrest the 
murderer’s stroke, or the savage beast’s as- 
sault ; that same power did this eye of the 
Sanctuary exercise over his soul ; it charmed 
and fixed him immovable to the spot ; not all 


THE LAMP OF THE SANCTUARY. 


53 


the promises or threats of eartli would have 
influenced him to attempt a crime so long as 
it beamed ui3on him. Nay, to his sight, it 
was a superhuman intelligence that darted 
from it ; tiiey were rays that penetrated 
into his bosom and pried into his heart, 
tliat came towards him from it ; they had 
a voice that spoke, they had a point that 
pierced, though tenderly. However the beams 
might play around objects beyond and around, 
and dance and linger on their way, to him 
they came direct and rigid, and swift as 
arrows from a bow, cutting through the dark- 
ness between, and not enlightening it, but leav- 
ing it darkness still. Yes, it seemed to him 
as an angel’s gaze; the look of the heavenly 
Watchman deputed to keep ward, and pay 
homage there, during the silent hours of 
niglit ; the Guardian of the sacred treasure, 
but whose power was only to milden, to 
soften, but not to strike or to destroy. And 
even thus did that light more subdue him and 
make liini coward. Sooner would he have 
faced, it seemed to him, a seraph brandishing 
a sword of fire, or angels with scourges in 
their hands, than this noiseless and harmless 


64 THE LAMP OF THE SANCTUARY. 

protector of the Sanctuary and its treasures. 
Is not grace about to triumph in him ? 

This succession of thoughts and feelings in 
Pierrot’s mind occupied in reality but a few 
moments ; but tliese were quite enough to tire 
the patience of his companion, wlio, though 
clearly overawed, had not the same associa- 
tions to work, nor the same heart to be worked 
on, as Pierrot. He soon broke in on the rev- 
erie which held him entranced, and, shaking 
him by the arm, said in a whisper — yes, the 
ruffian durst not speak in that light in a 
higher tone ; — 

“ Come, come, comrade, we are losing time ; 
let us begin.” 

I cannot,” said Pierrot, in the same voice ; 
‘‘ I dare not.” 

“ Nonsense ! ” gruffly urged the robber ; 
“ are you a child ? Kern ember your promise. 
To work, then, at once.” 

“ I will not,” replied his poor victim. “ Not 
for the world will I rob her who gave me back 
my daughter on a night like this.” 

“ And do you wish to murder her on such 
a night, too ? ” growled the savage, with set 
teeth, and the look of a tiger. “,If you will 


THE LAMP OF THE SxVXCTUARY. 


55 


not remember your promise, remember my 
tlircat. Ten minutes will take us to your 
house, and five more Avill finisli our work 
there. Kefuse, and in a quarter of an liour 
you will be a childless widower.” 

Pierrot’s heart quailed, liis heart shuddered 
and quivered at the thought. The moment of 
grace was over ; the demon had again tri- 
umphed, and in the recklessness of despair he 
exclaimed : — 

‘‘ Be it so, then ; let me accomplish my 
doom ! To work ; but not by this light ; no, 
grant me this at least — not by this light.” 

“ Why not ? ” asked the other. “ Is it not 
enough ? ” 

“ Never mind,” said Pierrot ; “ but not by 
this light. Let it be in total darkness, if you 
please : that would be better. But rather un- 
cover your dark lantern, that will be best.” 
And as he spoke he shaded his eyes with his 
hand that he might not see the lamp. 

The robber, muttering something to the 
effect that he too did not like that light much, 
uncovered his lantern. Its lurid red gleam 
streaming through the coarse smoked-glass 
appeared at once to contaminate the chaste 


56 THE LAMP OF THE SANCTUARY. 


light that before illuminated the holy place. 
It was like a stream of blood defiling, on a 
sudden, a crystal fountain ; or tlie glare of a 
burning cottage breaking into the summer 
moonlight. Yet it was comforting to Pierrot, 
and seemed to dispel his fears. His com2Dan- 
ion saw it, and clieered him on, saying : — 
Come on, we must make u^^ for lost time. 
I see you do not like that lamp. Ha ! ha ! 
we will get rid of it at once. It is silver, I 
have heard you say; so f)ull it down and un- 
tie it, while I take down the candlesticks from 
the altar.” 

Pierrot had just the same thought. So with 
desperate resolution, and still shrouding his 
eyes, he advanced to the lam]^, pulled it vio- 
lently down, and, with one jDowerful breath, 
extinguished it. 

In the same instant, a shriek rent his ears, 
so sudden, so sharp, and so full of agony, that 
it did not seem to proceed from human utter- 
ance, but to cohie from some being of another 
world. Whether it came from afar or from 
near, from the sky above or from the ground 
below, or from the country around, neither he 
nor his companion could teU. For it was in- 


THE LAMP OF THE SANCTUARY. 


67 


stantaneous, and was neither prolonged nor 
repeated. But so immediately did it follow, 
or rather accompany, the e.ytinction of the 
lamp, that both Pierrot and his companion 
naturally connected the two occurrences to- 
gether as cause and effect. 

\ 




CHAPTER IV. 

ITS EE-KINDLING. 

“Accende lumen sensibus, 

Infunde amorem cordibus.” 

“ Restore Thy light to the fading sight. 

And Thy love impart to the fainting heart.” 

Hymn, 

“Her lamp shall not be put out in the night.” (Prov. 
xxxi. 18 .) 

fearful cry which we described at 
close of the last chapter struck ter- 
ror into the breasts of the sacrilegious rob- 
bers. The ruffian leader shook with affright 
from head to foot, his teeth chattered, and the 
lantern fell from his trembling hand, and was 
extinguished. Both he and Pierrot rushed to 
the door and hurried out. Tliere they found 
their companion equally terrified with them- 
selves. 

“ Did you hear that ? ” they both ex- 
claimed. 



58 


THE LAMP OF THE SAJs^CTUARY. 


69 


‘‘ Hear it ? ” said he, with a trembling voice ; 

Ay, and do not wish or intend ever to hear 
it again. Let us be gone ; I will have nothing 
more to do with robbing churches. I never 
liked the job much from the beginning.” 

Both the robbers were now thoroughly 
alarmed, and fled as quickly as }3ossible 
towards their homes, leaving Pierrot to shift 
for himself. His first impulse should have 
been to give thanks to God for his own es- 
cape from the actual commission of a dreadful 
crime, and for that of his wife and daughter 
from the vengeance of his brutal comrades. 
But fear, as yet, froze up every other and 
every better feeling, and he only thought of 
running away from the scene of his wicked- 
ness, and finding shelter from the terrible cry 
which rung in his imagination. Instinctively 
he took the road towards home, and hurried 
along it in the dark, as quickly as his trem- 
bling knees would allow him. His remorse 
gave him no peace, and he fancied himself 
pursued ; every howl of the wind in the deep 
ravine sounded to him as the voice of an 
angry multitude in chase of him, every wav- 
ing branch and quivering bough looked to him 


60 THE LAMP OF THE SAISTCTUARY. 


as a sword or staff shaken over his head. 
Yet, still he halted not ; but on, on he ran in 
breathless haste. 

He came to the place we have before de- 
scribed, where a gentle slope led np from the 
wider road to the narrow path skirting the 
precipice. He ran up it in breathless haste ; 
the gray twilight was just beginning to ap- 
pear, when by it he saw, standing on the nar- 
row path before him, a wdld-looking figure, 
whose hair and garments streamed to the 
wind, immovable as the rock that overhung it. 
He paused and staggered. The words of 
Scripture which had once terrified him in an 
eloquent preacher’s mouth came to his 
thouo:hts. “ Fiat via illorum tenebrae et lubri- 
cum, et Angelus Domini coarctans eos.”* 
He thought of Balaam stopped by an avenging 
angel in the narrow path. It seemed to him 
as if the same judgment had overtaken him in 
the most perilous pass. And yet the terror 
he had left behind him urged him on, and he 
determined, at all risks, to face any danger 
before him, so that he might reach his home. 

* “ May their way be dark and slippery, and an Angel of 
God straitening them.” — Ps. xxxvi. 


THE LA3IP OF THE SANCTUARY. 


61 


He rushed forward at once to the object of his 
terror, but still it moved not ; he stood close 
to it and it stirred not. He gazed with min- 
gled terror and anxiety — it was his wife ! 

There she stood as if bereft of sense and 
speech, on the very brink of the precipice, 
looking intently down into its dejDth. She 
saw him not, she heeded him not ; and even 
when he had grasped her arm and addressed 
her by her name, and told her who he was, 
she started not, and turned not towards him^ 
but still kejDt her eyes fixed in the same direc- 
tion. 

Annette ! ” he exclaimed, almost distract- 
ed with this new sorrow, “ what are you look- 
ing at ? What is there below there that so 
rivets your sight and mind?” 

She replied not, but only pointed at a white 
object below. 

“ What is that?” he again asked ; ‘‘ a white 
stone? some sheep in the valley?” 

“Yes,” she replied, and they were her first 
words : “ our own lamb — Marie.” 

“How?” cried out the wretched man, 
“ what is slie doing there ?” 

At these words her sense seemed to return 


62 


THE LAMP OF THE SANCTUARY. 


to the unhappy mother, and turning round, 
and calmly confronting her husband, she said 
to him : — 

‘‘ Pierrot, you have no doubt forgotten that 
this night is the seventh anniversary or our 
dear child’s miraculous recovery. This morn- 
ing we were going to our Sanctuary to pray a 
while in silence, by the dear light of its lamj^, 
before she put off her white robes. She was 
tripping lightly and securely before me, when 
suddenly we lost sight of the light from the 
lamp ; and she naturally thinking (as I should 
have done had I been first) tliat it was time 
to turn, did so, and fell over the precipice. I 
gave but one shriek, and fell down senseless.” 

Pierrot felt as if a sword was driven through 
his heart. In a tone of agony he exclaimed : 
‘‘ I have^ then, this night murdered my child ! 
it was I who put out the lamp!” and before 
his wife could stop him he had flung liimself 
over the edge of the precipice ; and seizing 
hold of the weak shrubs which grew from its 
clefts, he let himself down from crag to crag, 
by a path which the most daring hunter would 
not have ventured to try. Fragments of rock 
crumbled from under his feet and rolled down 


THE LAMP OF THE SANCTUARY. 


63 


with terrible roar, the bushes crackled and 
crashed as he tore through them, regardless 
of bruise or tear ; and in a few moments he 
stood or rather kneeled by the object at which 
his wife had pointed. 

It was the body of his daughter, lying, pla- 
cid as if asleep, in a soft brake. Not a limb 
was broken, not a feature discomposed, not a 
scratch or rent inflicted on her or her gar- 
ments ; the very garland she had borne as an 
offering was still in her hand, and her white 
cloak was gathered gracefully around her. 
The body of St. Catherine, carried by angels 
to Mount Sinai, could not liave been more 
gently laid down by their hands. For so 
light and brisk had been her step, that she 
did not stumble or slip over the perilous edge, 
but flew over clear of its surface ; and life 
must have been extinct without pain long be- 
fore she reached the ground below. 

Pierrot knelt by her side for some time in 
deep anguish, but in earnest prayer; then, 
taking her in his arms, as reverently as he 
would have handled a sacred relic, proceeded 
along the valley till he came to the same 
slope which he had ascended, with very dif- 


64 THE LAMP OF THE SANCTUASY. 


ferent feelings, a few moments before, and re- 
turned along the path to the place where he 
had left his wife. He found her still riveted, as 
if entranced, to the spot. When he brought 
his precious burden near her she shed not a 
tear, she gave not way to a single expression 
of womanly grief — her mind seemed absorbed 
in the consideration of what, had occurred? 
Avhich seemed to her something more myste- 
rious than a mere accident of human event. 

She pressed her lips with deep devotion on 
the pale, but yet warm, brow of her child, and 
addressed her husband in these words : — 

“Pierrot, the words which you just now 
spoke, are buried in the faithful bosom of 
your wife. But they have recalled to my 
mind the words of your prayer just seven 
years ago, when you begged for your child’s 
life until some sacrilegious hand extinguished 
the lamp before the altar. Do you remem- 
ber?” Pierrot’s frame quivered as he made 
a sign of assent. Slie continued : “ Tlien your 
prayer was heard to the letter; and you have 
no riglit to complain.” 

“But she, too, hath prayed long and ear- 
nestly for two favors, and one at least has 


THE LAMP OF THE SANCTUARY. 


65 


been granted. She had entreated, not to be 
permitted to put off the white garments 
wliich consecrated her to God and His Bless- 
ed Mother, but to be laid in them on her bier. 
I thought but a few hours ago that there was 
no danger of this being granted. But in the 
hearing of your prayer hers has received its 
boon. She made another, too, but I know 
not yet its result.” 

‘‘What was it?” eagerly asked Pierrot. 
She replied : — 

“ Slie offered up the life which she prized 
so little, as a sacrifice, to obtain your return 
to grace and virtue.” 

“ Then she has been heard,” answered, with 
broken sobs, the unhappy Pierrot. 

He had scarcely uttered these words, when 
a bright light darted to the eyes of each, as if 
a bright star had on a sudden arisen. They 
looked around in amazement ; it was the light 
of the lamp rekindled in the Sanctuary, and 
again shining on the narrow and slippery 
path. Both hailed the omen, or rather the 
emblem and token of returning grace. 

The good priest had been awakened by the 
cry that had startled the robbers, and had 


66 THE LAMP OF THE SANCTUARY. 


arisen to ascertain its cause. He went first to 
his chaj^el, and to his astonishment found it 
dark. It was some time before he procured 
a light, and had in tliat moment relighted the 
lamp. On finding it drawn down, and still 
more on perceiving that the door was open, 
and discovering the lantern on the ground, 
he saw at once that he had had a narrow escape 
from sacrilege. How this had been prevented 
he could not conceive, and he remained ex- 
amining every place, and pondering on the 
strange circumstance, when he perceived foot- 
steps apj^roaching. His alarm was changed 
into grief when he saw that it was Pierrot 
and his wife, the former bearing in his arms 
the dead body of his daughter. 

It was long before his sympathizing sorrow 
allowed him to listen to the mother’s tale of 
affliction. She told it at last without men- 
tioning her husband’s name, except where she 
described him as madly rushing down the 
precipice to recover his child. But the good 
old man now saw his own, and a no less beauti- 
ful, solution of the mysteries of that night than 
that of the parents, as he said : — 

‘‘Now I understand it all. Not only has 


THE LAMP OF THE SANCTUARY. 


67 


her wish been gratified, of never returning to 
a worldly garb, but she has proved the guard- 
ian and protecting spirit of this her favorite 
Sanctuary, which she so much adorned. But 
for that fatal accident to her, and the pang it 
caused her mother, the robbers, whoever tliey 
were, would have accomplished their work. 
For, no doubt, the cry which awoke me 
scared them. By her death she has saved 
this holy place from pillage. She was herself 
as a second Lamp of the Sanctuary ; how nat- 
ural that the putting out of one should cause 
the extinction of the other.” 

Their plans were soon arranged. A bier 
was placed in tlie middle of the church, on the 
very spot where she loved to kneel, and 
covered with a black velvet pall. Upon it, 
facing the altar, the corpse was placed, in its 
snow-white spotless dress, the hands, with her 
crucifix placed between them, and her beads 
twined around them, were joined on the 
breast ; her long silken tresses floated on her 
shoulders, and the wreath which she her- 
self had twined was placed upon her head. 

On either side knelt one of her now broken- 
hearted parents; but Pierrot soon passed to 


68 THE LAMP OF THE SANCTUARY. 

the knees of the venerable pastor, where he 
poured forth with deep contrition and burn- 
ing tears the history of his past crimes, and 
exchanged the stinging w^orm of a remorseful 
conscience for the tender consolation of lov- 
ing repentance, and assurance of j^ardon by 
the absolution of Christ’s minister. 

He was again at his former post, kneeling 
by the body of his child. But now her spirit 
seemed to him to hover in the soft radiance 
above him, and to smile ui3on him in the rays 
of the sacred lamp. He could imagine it 
mingling with angelic choirs descending to 
rejoice over the sinner brought to repentance, 
and flitting around him, hand in hand with 
that guardian spirit who had never aban- 
doned him in all his wanderings. And as he 
looked,to assure himself of the reality of his 
state to the bier beside him, it seemed to 
him as if a new smile had played upon her 
features, and a tinge of life had turned red to 
her countenance. 

Morning was come, and the well-known 
deatli-bell sounded from the little turret of 
the chapel. The neighbors started at its voice, 
for they had heard of no illness near them, 


THE LAMP OF THE SANCTUARY. 


69 


and crowded in kind anxiety to the Sanctuary. 
They faltered as they entered in astonish- 
ment and sorrow. The tale was soon whis- 
pered from one to another ; the fliglit of those 
naturally suspected of the attempted sacri- 
lege confirmed all their conjectures, while 
Pierrot’s being with his wife and daughter 
screened him from suspicion. 

Many tears of. unaffected sorrow graced 
that funeral, but shed more in sympathy for 
the survivors, than from grief over her w’hom 
all now envied. Mothers held up their little 
ones to look upon that corpse ; and instead 
of shrinking from it in terror they stretched 
out their arms to ask to embrace it. 

There wns long in the cemetery of Mont- 
Marie a grave greener than all the rest, and 
decked each day by children’s hands with the 
fairest flowers ; and if you had asked any of 
the little laborers whose it was he would have 
told you with wondering eyes that it was 
Marias — as if none else had ever been called 
there by that name. 

After some years there were two other 
graves near the favorite spot ; they were those 
of her parents, honored by all for virtue and 


70 THE LAMP OF THE SANCTUARY. 


venerable old ao^e. Pierrot left it to be told 
after his death how his virtue and his happi- 
ness, his crimes, his punishment, his repent- 
ance, and his forgiveness, had been wonder- 
fully connected with the Lamp of the Sanc- 
tuary. 

■/ ^ 




CHAPTER L 

AN AUTUMN EVENING. 

FAINT red tinge yet lingered on tha 
broad waves of the Atlantic, which, in 
the blaze of the setting sun and lashed by -a 
sharp wind, had recently dashed like molten 
rubies against the shores of County Cork. 

But the sun had sank, and the bright waves 
had faded, first to a deep purple, then to a 
sable. Rolling heavily in-shore, the huge 
masses of water as the wind rose were edged 
with white. Still the western sky was streaked 
by the sunbeams, but they glared lurid and 
angry betwixt the gathering clouds of dense 
sable that betokened a coming storm. 

The day had been one of brilliant, spark- 
ling October sunshine and invigorating Octo- 

71 



72 


THE YOUNG FISHERMAN. 


ber breeze, and the breeze and the sunshine 
swept over green dale and sparkling waters, 
and mountains crowned with dark pines, and 
robed with thickets of holly and arbutus in 
fair and fertile beauty. 

Standing on the rocks that overlooked a 
little cove on a lonely part of the coast near 
the Bay of Bantry, was a lad about fifteen, 
steadily regarding the sky. 

During the bright day and the early flush 
of the sunset the scene had been beautiful 
as well as grand. 

Seaward the broad majestic waves of the 
Atlantic, with bold Cape Clear to the south. 
Landward the rocks that impended over^the 
little cove, their sides hung with moss and 
lichens, but their splintered summits bare gray 
stone. 

In the background the prospect was mag- 
nificent. The lovely scenery of the river Lee, 
the renowned Lake of Gougane Barra, wdth its 
savage grandeur, the wild Pass of the Keim- 
an-eigh, shut in by stupendous mountains, the 
woods now rich in all their autumn coloring, 
the green sloping glens, the biooks, the water- 
falls, presented every variation of the beauti- 
ful, the terrific, and the grand. 


THE YOUNG FISHERMAN. 73 

Beneath the splendor of the noonday sky 
the prospect had been one to fill the heart 
witli gladness. Now it took a shadow from 
the clouds that scudded in darkness overhead. 
But it was still light enough to leave both 
sea and landscape visible in the stern attri- 
butes of grandeur. 

The hollow piping of the winds now took a 
hoarser, deeper tone, and mingled their clamor- 
ous voices with the roar of the ocean. Still 
amid the now fast-gathering darkness the 
figure of the boy was visible, standing firm as 
a portion of the rock itself upon its summit. 

He seemed lost in contemplation of the 
scene — the ocean, the huge weltering waves 
of which now were distinguishable only by 
their jetty sheen and the white foam wreaths 
that crested their summits, the sky a leaden 
vault, fitfully brightened by an occasional star, 
seen and lost again by the eddying clouds. 
Ere it was quite dark, came bounding up the 
rocks another lad, who cried in a hearty 
voice, — 

‘‘ Oh, and by the powers, Turlough O’Brien, 
but it’s the quare boy yez are anyhow ! Is it 
waiting the time ye are here perched on the 


74 


THE YOUNG FISHEEMAN. 


rocks star-o-azin<2r when we should be <2rettin£: 

O O O O 

tlie boat out for daj 3 e-sea fishing ? ” 

“ The fish may swim free of the net in the 
deep sea to-night, Micky Reardon ! ” replied 
O’Brien, in a voice but sliglitly marked by the 
Hibernian accent, and wholly free from the 
idiom, signs of education and refinement 
somewhat remarkable in one who, like Rear- 
don himself, wore only the scanty and coarse 
garments of a fisher-boy on the coast. His 
bearing and aspect, too, were equally supe- 
rior to his apparent condition. 

It was not only that the lad was both in 
form and feature a model of the highest type 
of Irish beauty, which is to say, he might 
have been a new model for the Apollo Belve- 
dere, but there was the mark of race in the 
firm springing step, in the frame, not exceeding 
the middle height, so lightly as well as grace- 
fully formed, that the casual observer never 
would have suspected that those finely moulded 
limbs had nerves of steel. 

The almost Greek outline of feature, the 
short curved upper lip and rounded chin, the 
silky curls of hair that clipiDed the broad fore- 
head, and the deep gray eye, so lustrous and 


THE YOUNG FISHERMAN. 


75 


intelligent that it challenged the beauty of 
the black, falcon-like orbs, were all peculiarly 
Irish, the Irish of Cork or Galway. As for 
Micky Reardon, he w^as a specimen of an 
Irish lad of another sort. 

Broad built, under the middle size, strong 
as a mountain pony and active as a goat, with 
his black eyes ever beaming with roguery and 
warm-heartedness, irascible, and more fre- 
quently prompted by impulse than guided by 
reason, Micky Reardon was an admirable 
specimen of the Irish retainer of the old time, 
as clannish as the Scotch Highlander, and as 
ready to lay down his life for his chieftain. 
Micky Reardon, though he and Turlough 
O’Brien had been born and had grown up to- 
gether in an absolutely similar condition of 
poverty, was as ceremonious and deferential 
to Turlough as if the tAvo had lived in the 
days Avhen the Plantagenets Avere lords of 
Ireland, and the O’Briens Avere landlords of 
fair domains, AA'hich for centuries had now 
been in the occupation of strangers. In those 
days the Reardons Avere the favored vassals 
of the O’Briens, knights of the Red Branch, 
and a Reardon carried the shield of the chief 
before him to battle. 


76 


THE YOUNG FISHERMAN. 


Micky and Turlough, two orphan lads, 
shared the same cabin, planted potatoes, cast 
nets into tlie ocean side by side. But Micky 
never forgot that Turlough was the represent- 
ative of the “rale noble O’Briens, a big 
grand family, that had its own Banshee and 
Clurricane, the likes of which the ancestors 
of poor Micky could not pretend to ! ” 

Nevertheless ragged Micky, the fisher-boy 
of modern times, attendant on the no less 
ragged Turlougli, a fisher-boy also, was tis 
familiar as well as respectful as the smart 
esquire, Michael Reardon, had been to the gal- 
lant knight of the Red Branch, Sir Turlough 
O’Brien, in the old time. 

In pursuance of this rule of familiarity 
Micky now exclaimed, — 

“Sure an’ it is not yourself, Turlough 
O’Brien, that is going to let that thafe of the 
world, Jem Nolan, take the rise out of ye wid 
his fine new boat that he got, the mane-spirited 
spalpeen, for backing the lies of that Sasse- 
nach lawyer, Dan Simpson ? Dirty wather 
on the whole lot of them! I tould the villain, 
wid his brag and his bounce, that you and I 
would come home better laden with our ould 


THE YOUNG FISHERMAN. 


77 


jade of a boat than he would with the trim 
baggage newly launched. Why, Turlough 
darlint, I wagered him the crown-piece that 
Squire Fenton gave me for my journey to 
Cork the other day, that we would go out to- 
night and bring home our ould boat laden to 
the gunwale, and he should have scarce a flat- 
fish to flap a fin, for it was skill in sailing the 
boat and casting the nets, not the having a 
fine new-painted cockleshell that made sure of 
the booty ! ” 

“And you told him rightly, Micky,” re- 
plied Turlough O’Brien ; “ but for all that our 
poor old black Jenny will lie high and dry to- 
night, and if Jem Nolan ventures to launch 
his new craft I doubt if he will ever see the 
pleasant shores again.” 

“ Div ye mane there will be a storm, Tur- 
lough?” inquired Micky. “ Sorra bit of it! 
Look how the moon comes up yander, and 
the clouds scatter and the wind lulls. Why, 
there is not a puff to lift a ringlet on a girl- 
een’s cheek ! ” 

“Micky, my friend, the wind has lulled too 
much,” said O’Brien. “For the moon, she is 
false as the tides she governs. I have a surer 


78 


THE YOUNG FISHERMAN. 


guide. I can tell by wbat I have learned in 
the , books which good Father Connor has 
taught me to read, and by my observations of 
the stars, that about this season we shall have 
a terrilile storm, and that most likely it will 
be to-night. Therefore most certainly I sliall 
not launch the boat. You and I are but a 
coiq^le of boys, Micky ; we have fish, and po- 
tatoes, and a morsel of oatcake too in the 
cabin. Therefore, instead of risking our boat, 
let alone our lives to-night, either for pride of 
catching fish or for foolish brag against Jem 
Nolan, I think we shall be doing better to 
take some of our stores to poor Mary Fla- 
herty, Avhose husband was drowned a month 
ago, and left her, poor soul, with six little 
children to feed ! ” 

“ Sure, an’ it’s right ye always are, Turlough, 
and the world of goodness as well as clever- 
ness! Och, an’ it’s a black shame that you 
should be so low in the world ; for is not the 
cleverness and learning natural to ye like?” 

“You are a partial judge, Mike,” said Tur- 
lough. “My natural cleverness, as you call 
it, would have done little good but for the 
kindness of Father Connor; and as to my 


THE YOUNG FISHERMAN. 79 

being so low in the world, my jDoor Micky, 
cleverness no more than virtue is secure of 
money. Heaven does not pay its debts with 
gold ! There, now, what has become of your 
bright moonlight? And hark! there is the 
wind. How it comes howling off the ocean ! 
Come, Micky, it is a good hour’s walk to Mary 
Flaherty’s, and, if we do not set out at once, 
we shall not be to her cabin and back before 
the bursting of the storm.” 

\ 




CHAPTER IL 


THE SHIPWEECK. 


ilURLOUGH O’BRIEN was, indeed, a 
boy of great natural abilities, and it was 
a subject of regret to tbe good priest. Father 
Connor, that he could do so little to help 
him. 

When Turlough, a boy of only ten years of 
age, one morning presented himself to Father 
Connor after mass, and very humbly and 
diffidently made known his desire of learning 
to read, the education of the people was not 
much thought of even in England — in Ireland 
almost entirely disregarded. 

This did not greatly matter to a boy like 
O’Brien, who had not only ability but genius, 
and genius will always make its way. 

You must think that nothing less than 
downright genius could have prompted a poor 

80 


THE YOUNG FISHERMAN. -81 

little Irish cotter to go and ask the priest to 
teach him to read. 

But the best and most virtuous men the 
world has known have had every possible 
difficulty to contend with. 

Furgusson, the great Scottish astronomer, 
was but a shepherd’s boy, and all the giants 
of science and mechanics have, with scarce an 
exception, been men of the humblest origin. 

Turlough O’Brien had great general abil- 
ities, but his peculiar bent was for astronomy 
and navigation. 

To help him in these points Father Connor 
could do very little, but out of his own poor 
income he managed by some self-denial to 
save enough to buy a few elementary books 
for Turlough. 

It is superfluous to say that there was no 
Board School in those days ; there was no 
noble establishment of the Christian Brothers 
at Cork. 

The future of his favorite, Turlough O’Brien, 
was a matter of much anxiety to good Father 
Connor. 

Well-to-do people, even if of intellect a 
little above the average, are never in a hurry 


82 


THE YOVNCr FISHERMAN. 


to recognize superior talent in their social in- 
feriors. 

The well-to-do people in Father Connor’s 
neigliborhood were mostly English, and they 
had no mind at all to admit that a little wild 
Irish boy was superior to their pampered and 
very often stupid sons. 

So the good Father was fain to hope and 
pray, and leave tlie matter to Providence, se- 
cure in the faith that God, who had endowed 
this poor boy with such great abilities, would 
prepare the way for their being useful to liis 
fellow-creatures, as Avell as honorable and 
advantageous to himself. 

Father Connor was at pains to instil this 
faith also into Turlough himself; for the boy 
had some share in the failings of genius. 

lie was irritable and im2)atient, and galled 
at his own mean position. 

He was nevertheless so good and generous, 
and moreover so comforted by the dazzling 
dreams and confident hopes of youth, that the 
Father had no very great trouble in putting 
a curb on his impetuosity. 

Meantime Turlough was fain to win his 
bread by the precarious and dangerous calling 
of a fisherman^ 


THE YOUNG FISHERMAN. 


83 


He did not, however, lead an unhappy or 
lonely life. 

His foster-brother, Michael, was his constant 
companion ; he shared his perils on the wide 
ocean, he shared his dwelling and his homely 
fare, which it must be said was better than 
that of the ordinary Irish peasant. 

The merry humor of Michael enlivened the 
graver mood of O’Brien, and, as Father Con- 
nor said, the pair were a modern Damon and 
Pythias. 

Micky did not know who these worthies were, 
but Turlough did, and told him their story. 

So on that autumn night, when Turlough 
would not launch the boat because he descried 
the signs of a coming storm, which were un- 
perceived by his companion, the two, after 
carrying a basket of fish and meal and pota- 
toes to the widow and her children, betook 
themselves to their own cabin, sheltered in a 
nook of the rocks, with their boat safely 
moored below, and the wide wild ocean tum- 
bling beneath them. 

A very cosy supper had our two boys — 
potatoes roasted in ashes, boiled fish, oat- 
cakes, and buttermilk. 


84 


THE YOUNG FISHEEMAN. 


Not a drop of the potheen, which, alas ! 
does poor Pat more harm than good. 

Turloiigh had no mind to sleep ; so when 
the supper was over and the prayers said and 
tlie rosary told, he got a book which Fatlier 
Connor liad lent him, and sat down to read. 

Poor Micky, however, betook himself to his 
pallet of dried moss, and was soon in a sound 
sleep. 

Not long was it before Turlough’s prognos- 
tications of a stormy night were verified. 

First the wind, which had wailed in a sub- 
dued and fitful tone, rose into a fearful gale. 
Hail and sleet accompanied it. 

The hailstones were so large that they beat 
like pebbles against the avails of Turlough’s 
cottage ; the roof was protected by the over- 
hanging cliff. 

Louder and louder shrieked the wind, its 
hollow sounds mingling wdth the deep roar of 
the ocean. 

Anon a lance-like blue and quivering flame 
darted through the chinks of the structure, 
and the dull heavy boom of thunder was 
heard even above the roaring of the winds arid 
waves. 


THE YOUNG FISHERMAN. 


85 


‘‘It has come — I knew it would!” said 
Tarlough, closing liis book. 

Then he went and opened the door of tlie 
cottage to look, but a shower of hailstones 
which whitened the floor in a moment were 
beaten in by a fresh gust of wind, and tlie boy 
was fain to retreat, finding it difficult to re- 
shut the door. 

Then came presently one of those tempo- 
rary lulls which occur in the wildest storms, 
and Turlougli removed the sliutters from the 
little casement of the hut. 

But as he had been driven back by the hail, 
so he how retreated from the blaze of the 
forked lightning, which, vividly blue as a sap- 
phire, briefly illumined every corner of the 
cottage. 

Though dazzled by the glare, the keen eyes 
of Turlough took in at a glance all the terrible 
grandeur of the scene. 

The Atlantic tossing in waves mountains 
high, the waters showing blackly through the 
rents which the wind tore in the spray, which, 
white and feathery as the plumes of the ostrich, 
rose even as high as the shelf of rock on which 
Turlough’s cottage stood, and dashed salt and 
bitter through the casement. 


86 


THE YOUNG EISHERMAN. 


It was a terrific storm of the autumn equi- 
nox, and weeks before the scientific genius of 
O’Brien had warned him that such a storm 
would be. 

Again came the jagged lightning, followed 
by a peal of thunder so terrific that the very 
rocks seemed to tremble to their foundations. 
The tremendous crash broke even the heavy 
sleep of Michael Reardon, and, starting up, he 
rushed to the window, wliere Turlough stood 
spell-bound with mingled awe and admi- 
ration. 

Darkness, save for the glare of the foam, 
succeeded the azure glitter of the liglitning ; 
but as the tliunder died away in the distance 
through that snowlike foam, momentarily 
gleamed a current of red flame, followed by a 
report which seemed to mimic the bellowing 
thunder. 

‘‘ Och, and may the Blessed Virgin have the 
poor souls in her prayers this awful night ! ” 
exclaimed Michael Reardon, for yonder, 
Turlough, darlint, comes a ship driving on the 
rocks. Ochone, ochone! and it’s lost they 
are, for no boat can live in such a sea! ” 

‘‘ It is so pitch dark,” said Turlough. “ If 


THE YOUNG FISHERMAN. 


87 


the lightning blazes out again we can ascertain 
her bearings. If the wind drives her towards 
the cove there will be a chance of our saving 
some of the crew. The ship itself, I fear, is 
doomed.” 

u Why, Turlongh, agra, sure an’ ye will not 
be afther launching the boat on such a storm 
as this! Did you not say you would not 
tempt the say to-night ? ” 

‘‘Not either for pride or profit!” replied 
Turlough. “Not because the Sassenach law- 
yer has given Jem a new boat, which is not 
as good a craft as our old one; but to save 
drowning people is quite another matter. I 
see a chance of th^. I will launch the boat 
directly, and if you are the boy I have always 
found you, Michael Reardon, you will 
help.” 

“ Is it help you I will? Sorra the day, Tur- 
lough O’Brien ! An’ what is it this boy has 
said or done that you should ask such a ques- 
tion ? Where you go, Turlough, this boy will 
follow. But may the Blessed Mary, Star of 
the Sea, have us in memory to her Son, for 
beyond tlie mouth of the cove the water is a 
whirlpool ! ” 


88 


THE YOUNG FISHEEMAN. 


“If we could but see whither the ship is 
drifting ! exclaimed Turlough, heedless of his 
companion’s implied fears. 

Another gun had sounded while Reardon 
spoke, but the brief and fierce fiash did not 
show the ship. 

The next moment the lightning flashed out 
broad and terrible. 

It filled the firmament ; it darted across the 
sky in zig-zag flashes ; it swept round the edge 
of the horizon in a clear continuous sheet of 
flame. 

“And oh, St. Bride and St. Patrick, pray 
for them ! ” ejaculated Turlough, as in the 
blaze of the lightning he beheld a small vessel 
pitching and tossing amid the boiling waves, 
but still, as it rose and fell like a living thing 
in agony, it was propelled nearer and nearer 
to the rocks, from which it was not two hun- 
dred feet distant. 

The shrieks and cries of the unfortunates 
who were on the deck of the doomed vessel 
could now be heard mingling with the clamor 
of the storm ; but as if the night and the 
terrors of the winds and waves were not suf- 
ficient, a third, and the most terrific of all ele- 


THE YOUNG FISHERMAN. 


89 


ments, was exerted as an engine for the de- 
struction of the ill-fated mariners. 

The lightning struck the mainmast, ivhich 
blazed up, making a funeral pyre of the 
doomed vessel. 

1 




\ 


CHAPTER III. 


SAVED BY THE FISHERMAN. 


jJEVERAL of the persons on board the 
ship were killed by the stroke of the 
lightning. Friglitful, too, were the shrieks and 
cries that smote the ears of Turlough and his 


friend. But the catastrophe was near its 
consummation. The gale was at its height, 
and the vessel, lifted on a huge wave, was 
hurled bodily up on the rocks within half a 
furlough of the cove. To use a nautical 
phrase, her back was broken ; she went in half, 
and luckily for the few who were after- 
w^ards saved by the heroism and daring of 
Turlough O’Brien, the portion which was on 
fire was overwhelmed by the waves, and the 
other half wedged in a crevice of the rocks. 


Turlough liad himself kindled a bonfire of 


peat and dry wood. The wreck was within 

90 


THE YOUNG FISHEEMAN. 


91 


hailing distance, and, thongli his voice could 
not be heard amid the roar of the elements, 
he managed to make the unhappy mariners 
understand that he would endeavor to assist 
them. 

Crew and passengers, there had been eight- 
een persons on board the vessel, the bark 
St. Geronimo from Lyons for London, but 
which had been driven out of her course by 
the storm. Of these unfortunates thirteen 
had already perished, some killed by the fall 
of the burning mast, others drowned when 
the ship struck, and two of the sailors dashed 
to pieces in the endeavor to swim on shore. 

It was at the imminent risk of their own 
lives that Turlough and his foster-brother 
launched their boat and reached the wreck. 
But they did reach it, and took off live i3er- 
sons, three seamen and two passengers. Of 
these last, one was a silk merchant of Lyons, 
and the other a French ecclesiastic. With 
difficulty and danger Turlough got them all 
safely on shore. He and Micky made up a 
fire, dried the clothes of the shipwrecked 
people, and gave them sucli refreshments as 
their cottage afforded. 


92 


THE YOtTNG FISHERMAN. 


The storm lulled and the morning rose 
fair and beautiful. Tlie sliipwrecked persons 
proceeded to Cork, and so great liad been the 
courage and skill of Turlough in saving them 
from the wreck that he received a handsome 
reward from the government. Better even 
than this, the French priest. Father Morel, 
was an emissary of the Society of the ‘‘ Chris- 
tian Brothers,” charged with establishing their 
schools in Ireland. When he learned from 
Father Connor the character and aspirations 
of Turlough O’Brien you may be sure that 
the genius of the Irish boy received all the 
care and cultivation which the Society 
founded by the Abbe de la Salle could be- 
stow. 

Turlough O’Brien was one of the first 
pupils of the Christian Brothers at Cork, and 
rose to great eminence as a mathematician 
and astronomer. 



Clje Silkr |lelt({imrg ; 

Or, astray m THE STREET. 


CHAPTER I. 

DESOLATE CHILDREN. 

N a tumble-down, half-ruined house in 
the neighborhood of Fisharable Street, 
a poor locality in Dublin, over fifty years ago, 
some forlorn families had found a shelter. 

Tliere was a foolish report afloat that the 
house was haunted by the spirit of a miser, 
who had been tliere robbed and murdered 
many years before. This report, it is need- 
less to say, was false ; but as it was situated 
in a gloomy and squalid neighborhood^ and 
had been the scene of a frightful catastrophe, 
people who could pay did not care to take it,. 

^3 



94 THE SILVER RELIQUARY; 

and the heir of the miser, a very small part of 
whose hoardings were in the house, abandoned 
it to decay. 

Among the forlorn creatures who crept for 
shelter to those crumbling walls and that dis- 
mantled roof was a family of the name of 
Delaney, consisting, wheij they sought that 
wretched shelter, of the father, mother, and 
three children, a girl about fifteen, and two 
boys, wdiose ages w^ere respectively eleven and 
nine. Rose Delaney was a beautiful girl, 
and her mother had been a very beautiful 
woman ; but sickness and poverty are sore 
foes to beauty, and Mrs. Delaney had known 
much of both. She had been the only child 
and heiress of a rich merchant of Liverpool, 
whom she had mortally offended by a private 
marriage with one of his clerks. 

Rose Clayland, indeed, had been much to 
blame, for not only had she disobeyed her 
father, but she broke her own engagement 
with a worthy and prosperous young mer- 
chant of her father’s choice. 

Walter Rivers had known Rose from her 
childhood, for his father had been the friend 
of hers, and the marriage of theii* children 


OE, ASTRAY IN THE STREETS. 95 

was between the parents one of those often- 
devised schenies that never come to pass. 
Rose entertained for Walter just such a kind 
of attachment as she might have had for an 
affectionate brother; but Walter^s love for 
her was of another character, deeply rooted, 
and to end only with his life. 

Walter, however, was as placid and mild in 
his temper as he was strong in his affections ; 
he was not demonstrative — he did not “wear 
his heart upon his sleeve;” consequently 
heedless Rose thought not how deep a wound 
she inflicted when, within a week of the day 
appointed for their marriage, she jilted him 
for the handsome, dashing, and, save for the 
salary he received from her father, the penni- 
less young Irishman, John Delaney. 

She was guided only by the wild, inconsid- 
erate passion which she and Delaney called 
love, and for which they both violated every 
bond of duty, honor, prudence, and gratitude ; 
for it was very ungrateful of Delaney to steal 
away Mr. Clayland’s daughter, as he had 
taken him into his counting-house a penniless 
lad, and almost without a recommendation. 

Poor Rose! she recked as little of the 


96 THE SILYEK EELIQUAET ; 

wrath of her father as of the pain she inflicted 
on Walter Rivers. Her father would forgive 
her, and Walter would very likely be glad to 
be quit of his engagement. How could they 
love each other as husband and wife, they who 
had from childhood been like brother and 
sister ? 

Never did damsel who eloped make a more 
^terrible mistake. Mr.^ Clayland sternly re- 
fused to pardon her ; refused ever to see her 
again ; refused her the smallest assistance. 

Walter was wounded to the core of that 
generous and tender heart which he had given 
her so freely and so fully. But the love' of 
Walter was a true love, not a selflsh passion. 
So he, whom Rose had so cruelly deceived, 
did all he could to appease her incensed 
father. His utmost efforts were vain ; the 
angry merchant even charged him with having 
been, despite his protests, indifferent to Rose; 
that he could pardon her marriage with his 
rival. He still refused to pardon Rose or to 
assist her with a shilling. 

Then was made manifest the true Christian 
spirit of Walter Rivers. He not only offered* 
substantial help to the newly-married couple, 


OK, ASTRAY IN THE STREETS. 97 

but bore with the mortification of Delaney’s 
very ungracious acceptance of it. The truth 
was, that, though after a fashion of his own 
he certainly loved Rose, John Delaney had 
thought more of her father’s fortune than 
was compatible with an honest and unselfish 
love. Certainly he would not have persuaded 
Rose to that act of treachery and disobedience, 
her "larriage with him, but that he took her 
father’s forgiveness as a foregone conclusion. 
He was cruelly mortified by the necessity of 
accepting the assistance of Walter Rivers. It 
takes a superior mind to bear patiently and 
graciously with an obligation, and poor De« 
laney had a very small mind. So he talked 
large, and in a fashion that would have amused 
Walter, if it had not caused him pain and 
apprehension for the future of Rose in the 
hands of such a poor, vain braggart. He 
would accept Mr. Rivers’ kind proffer of a 
thousand pounds as a loan, said Delaney. 
He had most infiuential connections in his 
native city of Dublin ; he would enter into 
business there, and in a year or two he trusted 
to return the money, with interest. Rivers 
would have assured him that he gave the 


98 


THE SILVER RELIQUARY ; 


money freely to Rose as a wedding present, 
but that "he was willing, in his great generos- 
ity, to spare the pride of the man who had 
not spared his feelings in the most tender 
point. 

Rose was more sensitive. With tears she 
thanked Walter, and murmured a broken apol- 
ogy for her conduct, a protest that she deemed 
not he had honored her with so much true and 
tender love. 

Walter knew that although Delaney be- 
longed to a highly respectable family, that 
he had no near connections living ; that his 
father had died in a subordinate position at 
Liverpool, and that the lad would have been 
destitute but for the kindness of Mr. Clayland. 
He bore patiently, however, with the man’s 
brag, and even interested himself to see Dela- 
ney really well established in Dublin. 

In that business he might have done well, 
but the same reckless expectations, the same 
jealous and haughty temper, which had 
prompted him to delude his employer’s daugh- 
ter into a stolen marriage, attended him 
through life. He was so far from ready to 
return the handsome advance of Walter Riv« 


OR, ASTRAY IN THE STREETS< 99 

ers at the end of a twelvemonth, that he was 
glad to increase his obligation by another five 
hundred pounds. 

Then he was for a few years tolerably pros- 
perous, though not to the extent of returning 
the money, which he pretended to regard only 
as a loan, but which Rivers had bestowed as 
a gift. Then he fell into misfortunes, and was 
bankrupt under circumstances not altogether 
honorable. There was no more help to be had 
of Walter Rivers, though Rose, to save her 
reckless husband, ventured once more to ap- 
peal to him. Her letter was returned, with 
the information that Mr. Rivers had disposed 
of his business, and left Liverpool for the Con- 
tinent with the design of entering some reli- 
gious order. Always gentle and quiet, the dis- 
appointment of his affections had converted 
Walter Rivers into a grave and melancholy 
man, who had lost all inclination for the pleas- 
ures of the world. 

After his bankruptcy, the fortunes of Dela- 
ney fell from bad to worse ; for a short time 
he obtained employment as a clerk, but he had 
been too long his own master to brook subjec- 
tion to others, and had gradually sunk into 


100 THE SILVER RELIQUARY ; 

the extreme of poverty, so that the terrible 
winter of 1833 found him with his wife and 
their children resident in the dilapidated old 
house near Fishamble Street. 

It is not to be sui^posed that in her mani- 
fold trials Mrs. Delaney did not again implore 
pardon from her father ; but he was inexora- 
ble. He had married again; he was the 
father of a son, and his wife was a most ex- 
travagant woman. The Delaneys supped the 
cup of sorrow to the bitter dregs. The 
wretched man had sunk to deriving support 
from copying law papers, a meagre and mis- 
erable mode of subsistence even for a single 
person. His " tenderly-nurtured wife and 
beautiful daughter earned a pittance at mak- 
ing artificial flowers, and the two poor little 
boys ran errands. 

They were so thoroughly unfortunate, these 
poor Delaneys, that no calamity could jDass 
them by. The dreadful epidemic in its most 
virulent form seized upon Delaney, and he 
expired in a few hours ; and before he could 
be laid in the grave the eldest boy sickened 
and died. 

It was a bitter winter night ; sleet and 


OR, ASTRAY IN THE STREETS. 101 

snow swept along the streets. On that, the 
year of its fii’st appearance in Europe, the 
cold weather did not stay the ravages of the 
disorder. 

Three dismal days had dragged away since 
the ill-fated and unfortunate Delaney had been 
laid with his poor boy in the grave. Poor 
Rose was extended on the miserable couch 
from which she knew that she would never 
rise, and sorrowfully she turned her failing 
eyes upon that other Rose, her beautiful 
daughter, weeping beside her, and the poor 
little boy Terence crouching over the misera- 
ble bit of fire in the wide andiiTisty stove. 

No food, no nourishment, even in that last 
terrible extremity, Mrs. Delaney could buy. 
She had managed to pay the expenses of the 
meagre attendance and miserable funeral of 
her husband and her eldest son. For herself 
she cared not ; she knew that for her the suf- 
ferings of earth would soon be over. But her 
delicate Rose and her little Terence, they 
showed no symptoms of the terrible disorder ; 
they might live ; days of better fortune might 
be in store for them. 

The pain and violence of her terrible dis- 


102 


THE SILVEE BELIQUAEY ,* 


ease had passed, and Rose lay in a state of 
physical tor|)or, but with her mind active and 
alert. 

In the reckless, and, alas, oftentimes dis- 
honest courses of John Delaney’s later years, 
he had neglected all observance of religion, 
never once attending mass ; and his wife, 
weary of her misery, rebellious, and impatient 
of her sufferings, not only followed his exam- 
ple, but, what was far worse, neglected the 
religious instruction of her children. 

No holy and consolatory rites of the Church 
had sustained John Delaney in his last mo- 
ments, and within a few hours of his death he 
had been hurried to the nearest Protestant 
burial-ground. 

Even the poor chance of a death-bed repent- 
ance had not been vouchsafed to the unhappy 
Delaney, and the horror that now fastened on 
the soul of his wife was aggravated by the re- 
flection that she had suffered him to die like 
a heathen. 

The only article or record of better times 
remaining with Mrs. Delaney was of compar- 
atively trivial value. Still many a time dur- 
ing the past year it would have been parted 


OR, ASTRAY m THE STREETS. 103 

with for a shilling or two, but for Mrs. Dela- 
ney’s affectionate* and grateful remembrance 
of the donor. It was a reliquary, a small sil- 
ver crucifix suspended to a thin chain of the 
same metal, not of more intrinsic value than 
an ordinary teaspoon, but it had been a birth- 
day gift of Walter Rivers when they were 
both children, and contained a relic of St. 
Rose of Lima. In all the chances and changes 
of her life Rose had kept the reliquary, but 
less from respect to its own holy signification 
than as a memory of a kind, unselfish friend. 

That night upon her death-bed, in her re- 
morse for her own and her husband’s past, 
and her anxiety foi- the future of her chil- 
dren, her thoughts turned to the true and gen- 
erous Walter Rivers. At first it was with a 
mere worldling’s regret. Oh, that she knew 
whether he yet lived, that she might send to 
him and pray him, for the memory of old 
times, to have a care for her poor children. 
Then came a more salutary consideration. 

Though Walter Rivers had passed out of 
her life, was there not many a good and pious 
Catholic minister of the altar who would visit 
her in this extremity, who would again receive 


104 


THE SILVEK RELIQUARY ; 


her into the Church, and when she was gone 
would have a care that her children were not 
wholly abandoned ? 

There was neither chest of drawers nor 
wardrobe in the miserable apartment inhabited 
by tliat destitute family, but the reliquary was 
kept in an old trunk with a few worn articles 
of clothing. In broken and faint accents Mrs. 
Delaney bade her daughter bring her the reli- 
quary. The younger Rose thought that in 
their dire extremity her mother thought of 
selling or raising money on the weight of 
the silver ; and as she placed it in her cold 
hand she said, “ Dear mamma, it is so late, 
all the shops are closed ; I shall not be able 
to dispose of this to-night.” 

“ Not to a shop — not to a money-lender ! ” 
faltered Mrs. Delaney. “ To the nearest 
Catholic chapel — the priest will come — but 
it must be to-night — show the reliquary.” 

Then the poor woman fell into a swoon, 
which her terrified children at first took for 
death. 



CHAPTER II. 

IN THE WINTER NIGHT. 

FTER a few minutes of consternation, 
Rose imagined that she could detect a 
slight pulsation about her mother’s heart. 
There was no friend or neighbor to whom the 
poor girl could apply. The ruinous tenement 
was deserted of all save themselves, and the 
ravages of the terrible and unknown disorder 
had paralyzed even the ready sympathy of 
the warm-hearted Irish. 

But Rose knew no priest would turn a deaf 
ear to the summons. She hesitated whether 
she should go herself or send little Terence. 
The hour was late, it was a wild, fierce night, 
and Terence was a delicate, timid child ; 
but his timidity made him more fearful of 
remaining alone with his insensible mother 
than even of venturing abroad. He sobbed 

105 



106 THE SILVER RELIQUARY; 

and shivered, and implored Rose to let him go 
in search of the priest ; and as the child would 
be incapable even of attending to his mother 
should she revive, Rose at last permitted him 
to go in search of that only help which they 
could look for. 

It was indeed a dismal night — no moon, 
no stars, a fierce wind howling along the 
streets, and snow and sleet mingling with the 
rain. 

Poor little Terence ! he was miserably clad ; 
his jacket and trousers were ragged past 
mending, and his shoes were so worn he had 
been almost as well without them. He was 
hungry, too, and, naturally a nervous child, 
the late sudden and terrible deaths of his 
father and brother, and the present condition 
of his mother, had reduced him to a pitiable 
state of both mental and j^hysical weakness. 

Amid all their poverty and wretchedness, 
little Terence had been the pet and plaything 
of the rest of the family, and it was only 
since they had been driven to seek shelter in 
the ruinous house that the little boy had 
shared in the suffering. Out alone at the 
drear hour of midnight, in the cold and the 


OR, ASTRAY IN THE STREETS. 107 

wet and the darkness, the terrified child almost 
wished that he had remained with his mother. 

He mistook his way in the darkness, and 
wandered aimlessly in a labyrinth of streets 
in the poorest part of Dublin. For the most 
part the inhabitants of that wretched district 
had betaken themselves to their miserable 
beds ; here and there a light shining through 
some dusky casement betokened the watch by 
the sick or dying. 

Late wayfarers hurried by, wrapping their 
garments dose about them, and these were 
diversified by the reckless revellers who were 
staggering home under the influence of whis- 
key. A party of these inebriates stumbled over 
the child and knocked him down in the slush 
and melted snow. As he scrambled to his feet, 
the chain to which the reliquary was sus- 
pended partly slipped from under his ragged 
vest, and one, of the tipsy rufiians, caught by 
the glitter, made a snatch at it. 

The terrified child managed to evade his 
clutch, and with a loud scream he fled away 
through the storm, unheeding whither he went, 
but happily to a more open and respectable 
part of the city. 


108 


THE SILVER RELIQUARY; 


He paused at last for breath, and looked 
tearfully round him. The light of a lamp 
gleaming through the now fast descending 
snow showed him the portico of a large and 
handsome house. 

The poor little fellow was conscious that he 
had lost his way, and, standing terrified' and 
exhausted, he sank down under shelter of the 
porch, sobbing and crying pitifully, — 

“ O mamma ! O Rose ! oh what shall Ido? 
I cannot find the chapel ! I have lost my 
way ! ” 

“Poor child! what is the matter? Why 
are you out in such a night as this ? ” ex- 
claimed a kindly voice ; and looking up, Ter- 
ence saw a tall, grave-looking gentleman, who 
rang a bell in the portico by which he had sunk 
down. The child’s story was soon told ; but 
when he exhibited the reliquary, the stranger, 
after examining it, eagerly inquired his moth- 
er’s name. Then the little boy was taken into 
the large, handsome house. Some warm broth 
was given to him, and in less than half an 
hour, to the wonder of Terence, he was seated 
in a warm carriage with the stranger, a pidest, 
and a medical man, and on his. way back to 
the old ruined house. 



CHAPTER III. 

THE CHRISTIAN BROTHER. 


n HAT benevolent stranger whom little 
Terence had encountered was no other 
than Walter Rivers himself. 

Good and true and Idnd as ever, when he 
stood beside the dying Mrs. Delaney, and she 
reproached herself with the broken vows of 
her youth, he replied that he had forgiven her 
from the first, and that the one pain he had 
suffered had procured for him a consolation 
such as the world cannot give. In feeding 
the hungry, clothing the naked, and instruct- 
ing the ignorant there is^no disappointment. 

On leaving Liverpool, Walter Rivers had 
associated himself with the “ Society of the 
Christian Brothers,” and devoted his fortune 
to establish schools in England and Ireland. 
Lately visiting Liverpool, he had found that 

109 


110 THE SILVER RELIQUARY. 

Mr. Clayland had lost both his second wife 
and son. His fortune had been greatly re- 
duced by her extravagance, but he was still 
possessed of a competency, and was desirous 
of being reconciled to his daughter. 

The good Walter Rivers, now known as 
‘‘Brother Anselm,” had proffered to visit 
Dublin in search of the Delaneys, and arrived 
in that city only on the day preceding that 
night of storm, when he so providentially 
came across little Terence “strayed in the 
streets ! ” 

Mrs. Delaney did not recover, but her last 
hours were consoled by her father’s forgive- 
ness, by the knowledge that there was a future 
of respectability and comfort for her children, 
and, above all, by her being received again 
into the bosom of the Church. 

Mr. Clayland did not long survive his 
daughter, and after dutifully attending on 
him in his last moments. Rose Delaney took 
the veil in a convent of Ursulines. Little 
Terence, taken charge of by Walter Rivers, 
ended his life as a “ Christian Brother.” 



a Can Jn. 


i CHAPTER I. 

m T Avas a stifling hot day in July; the 
flagstones burned one’s feet as one 
walked along the uneven, broken pavement, 
and no shade seemed to fall on the closely 
packed houses of a dingy court, reeking with 
bad smells, dirt, and misery of all kinds, 
through which I one day wended my way to 
see a sick child. 

In one of the rooms of the most Avretched 
of these tenements lay a little girl about 
twelve years of age. A broken staircase led 
up to the place, Avhich Avas divided by a rough 
sort of boarding from the sleeping-dens of 
the other lodgers in the house — you could 
not dignify such places by the name of homes! 

Ill 


112 


WHAT A CHILD CAN DO. 


Each room had its distinct family — its tale 
of woe, misery, and sin ; and the one which I 
now entered was no exception. Yet, in one 
way, all wei’e alike ; there was always the old 
story. Father out of work, and continually 
drunk; mother grown reckless from despair; 
children half-naked, and more than half- 
starved, crouching in the doorways or quar- 
relling over some broken toy in the dirty 
landing-place. 

On a miserable little bed, covered with rags 
which never could have laid claim to the 
name of bed-clothes, lay the object of my 
search. Pallid, dirty, and uninviting as the 
poor child was, there was something in her 
face which instantly arrested my attention. 
Her large, lustrous eyes had a hungering, 
longing expression, as if forever seeking after 
that which they could not find. As there 
was no chair in the room, I sat down on the 
edge of her poor little bed, and began to talk 
to her. I found her as ignorant of the most 
elementary truths as if she had never lived 
in a Christian land ; nor could she read a 
word — nor did she know a letter. She had 
been sent out to work as soon as she could 


WHAT A CHILD CAN DO. 


113 


understand anything, and there was no money 
at home for food, much less for schooling. In 
carrying a heavy pitcher of water the year 
before (a load, in fact, far beyond her 
strength), she had fallen and injured her 
knee, and it had got worse and worse, and 
now “ she was quite laid up,” she said, ‘‘ and 
unable to put her foot to the ground.” I 
asked her to let me see it. She did so with 
evident terror, lest I should give her pain. 
It was in a frightful state of neglect and dirt, 
and an ugly wound showed me the scrofulous, 
and consequently hopeless, nature of her 
malady. 

Promising to bring her some fine rags, and 
to come and dress it gently for her on the 
following day, I sat down again, and tried to 
make her open her little heart to me, in 
which, after some preliminary shyness, I suc- 
ceeded. She knew nothing whatever of Gos- 
pel history — could not even say the ‘‘Our 
Father,” or a “Hail, Mary;” but she 
showed a feverish anxiety to learn. I had in 
my basket a series of little colored pictures, 
illustrating all the principal events of Our 
Lord’s life ; and these I took out and showed 


114 


WHAT A CHILD CAN DO. 


her, explaining them one by one, and unravel- 
ling for her (for the first time in her life, pooi 
child !) that wondrous tale, so old, yet eve?* 
new, of His Divine humility and love. Th^ 
effect on her took me completely by surprise 
Large tears filled those lustrous eyes, and rar. 
down those pallid cheeks ; and nothing would 
content her but that I should pin the whol^ 
series round her bed, beginning wdth th^: 
Nativity, and ending with the Crucifixion, oi? 
Avhich last subject she dwelt with a tender- 
ness, mingled with a species of horror ane 
pain, which ’was a rebuke to my own cold 
hearted ness not easily to be forgotten. 

Soon after her mother came in ; and, in 
spite of her tawdry and draggled dress and 
bloodshot eyes, there was an evidence of 
better nature struggling within lier, whicb 
made her welcome with pleasure any one whc 
was kind to her sick child ; so that she re 
ceived me with unexpected courtesy. Eagerl} 
the child began pouring out into her mother’^ 
ear all the facts I had been telling her, point- 
ing to the j^ictures ; and then sadly exclaimed : 

“ Oh, mother, why did you not tell me all 
this before ? ” 


WHAT A CHILD CAN DO. 


115 


The woman looked down sheepishly enough; 
and then, throwing her apron over her eyes, 
she suddenly burst out crying violently. I 
was prepared with reproaches for the mother 
who had so grossly neglected her duty towards 
her child ; but the latter stopped me. 

‘‘ Poor mother ! ” she whispered ; it’s not 
her fault; I shouldn’t have said that. She 
has had such trouble ! Do comfort her.” 

Touched and surprised at her words and 
manner, I endeavored to soothe the woman, 
and asked her what had brought her to such 
straits. Then followed a sad tale of continual 
misfortune, trial, and wrong, ending in de- 
spair and drunkenness, with all its evils ; and, 
at the close of the relation, the poor woman’s 
tears again burst forth. 

“And isn’t it enough to break any one’s 
heart to see poor little Mary there — with 
nothing to give her — and she dying, as one 
may say ! and all the wages going to the gin- 
shop, as would keep her comfortable ; and 1 
can earn nothing now, so to speak ! ” 

I said a few words to her of sympathy, and 
of the Healer of all troubles, if we only lay 
them at His feet ; and then took my leave, 
promising to return on the morrow. 


IIG 


WHAT A CHILD CAN DO. 


The morrow came, and the bright look of 
welcome with which I was greeted by the 
sick child amply repaid me for my hot walk. 
She had got her mother to paste all the little 
prints on the wall of her room in their order, 
so that the whole life of Our Blessed Lord 
was. before her; and she had remembered 
every syllable of our previous day’s conversa- 
tion. Gladly, therefore, did I continue it, 
having first washed and dressed the wound, 
which she submitted to patiently after I had 
talked to her a little of the jDain borne by 
Our Lord for her, and how she could offer up 
her suffering to Him. And so we went on 
day by day; and every hour the truths she 
was learning seemed to sink deeper and deeper 
into her heart. 

Soon I felt that she was fitted for higher 
teaching than mine ; and so, one morning, I 
brought to her bedside the kind and gentle 
j)riest who had so often striven in vain for 
admission into that wretched room. He was 
greatly moved, both at the fervor of her piety 
and at the freshness and vividness of her reli- 
gious impressions ; and lost no time in pre- 
paring her for her Confession and First Com- 


WHAT A CHILD CAN DO. 


117 


m union, which she received with a faith and 
joy which will ever remain on my memory. 

But soon after this a sudden stop was put 
to our intercourse. One day, as I was read- 
ing to her, as usual, some parts of Our Lord’s 
Passion, which was her great delight, the 
door opened suddenly, and a man entered of 
rough and surly aspect. 

“ What are you doing here ? ” he exclaimed 
to me, in great anger. “ I want no canting 
Sister of Charity in my house.” 

“ But, father, father ! ” exclaimed the poor 
child ; “ she has been so kind to me you don’t 
know — and ” 

“ And I don’t choose she should stay here,” 
he retorted fiercely, interrupting her; while, 
thrusting back into my basket the jelly and 
other little sick comforts I had brought, he 
motioned me to the door. Fearful of the 
effect this scene might have on his child, and 
anxious not to excite him further, I rose at 
once, and quietly saying that I hoped some 
day he would feel differently toward me, I 
kissed the little girl and went away. 

Home troubles and sickness prevented my 
returning to the court for a fortnight or three 


118 


WHAT A CHILD CAN DO. 


weeks ; but the first morning I found myself 
at liberty I went back to see if I could once 
more gain access to the sick child’s room. A 
woman met me on tlie first landing. 

“ Oh, Sister, you’re wanted up stairs. That 
man in No. 6 is so bad with fever. Yester- 
day he was not expected to live.” 

“What! the father of little Mary?” I ex- 
claimed ; and hastily climbing up the ladder- 
like staircase, found myself in a few moments 
in the room. 

There was the man on a pallet by the side 
of his child, moaning in agony ; and she, hav- 
ing crawded oukof her little bed, was lying by 
him, gently repeating to him the “Our Fa- 
ther,” and trying to make him follow her. 
When he saw me, he hid his head under the 
bedclothes, murmuring, “This is your re- 
venge ! ” 

I took no notice, but lighting a little Etna I 
had brought with me, soon succeeded in mak- 
ing him some tea. The expression of his face 
was quite changed — he thanked me, with 
tears in his eyes; but as for little Mary, she 
was radiant. 

“Pie can say it all now,” she whispered 


WHAT A CHILD CAN DO. 


119 


eagerly to me ; ‘‘ and he’s never going to be 
drunk any more ! ” 

I looked at the little apostle as she lay with 
her thin, wasted face close to his, and smoothed 
the hair on her white forehead. 

“And how is my child herself to-day?” I 
said cheerily, fearing the over-excitement for 
her feeble frame. 

“Very bad,” answered her mother, who 
was standing, sobbing, in the corner of the 
room. “But then, ma’am, nothing would 
content her but to be by him, when he was 
took so bad ; so I let her stay, and there she 
has been all day, and all night, too, a teaching 
of him all the things as you taught her, and 
a deal more besides — and he’s quite another 
man now, to be sure,” she added, smiling 
through her tears. “And I thank you kindly, 
ma’am, for what you have done for ’em both.” 

At this moment the good old parish priest 
came in ; Mary’s face lighted up. 

“Father’s all right now,” she exclaimed, 
“and can say a ‘Hail, Mary,’ and .will never 
turn you out of doors any more ! ” 

But the effort had been too great. The 
strain of the last few days had exhausted the 


120 


WHAT A CHILD CAN DO. 


child’s remaining strength, and her head sud- 
denly sank forward. 

‘‘ My poor, dear child ! ” cried out the peni- 
tent father, vainly striving, in his weakness, 
to rise and help her. 

A cordial revived her ; but it was only for 
a time. Her work was done — her father 
was saved — and that night the Master called 
her home. 




\ 


fonitg Snskians. 


jlEPPO and Bianca Liardi were the chil- 
dren of a Florentine vine-dresser, who 
died of a fever whilst exposed to the heat of 
the sun, leaving his wife (who was blind) and 
the two children to bemoan his loss. The 
boy was only eight years of age, and the girl 
seven, and as their mother was helpless, and 
they had no means of support, they fell into 
great poverty, and knew not what to do. 
Their cottage and little vineyard were taken 
from them by their landlord ; and at last, so 
badly were they off, that they were often for 
many hours without food, and would have 
been still longer were it not for the charity 
of neighbors almost as poor as themselves.. 

121 


122 


THE YOUJ^G MUSICIANS. 


At length, when they were deprived of all, 
little Beppo-, who was a manly, stout-hearted 
little fellow, suggested to his mother, that as. 
she knew how to play on the guitar, and had 
taught him and Bianca to sing, something 
might be earned amongst them by wandering 
through the country and singing for hire. At 
first the poor blind woman’s feelings revolted 
at this proposal ; but poverty is a hard task- 
master, and sooner than know that her dear 
children were starving she consented. Their 
kind neighbors assisted them as much as they 
could at their first outlay, and when they set 
off, the children leading their mother on each 
side, they were tolerably well provided with 
clothes, and with a few coins in their pockets. 

Beppo, who at this early age was thus called 
upon to enact the part of a man and a pro- 
tector, was, fortunately for himself, wise and 
prudent beyond his years. He could read 
pretty well, and for the last year had assisted 
his father in the garden and vineyard, while 
in the evening he read to his mother good and 
pious books, or joined his sister in singing for 
her amusement, while she accompanied them 
on the guitar, which she played upon with 


THE YOUNG MUSICIANS. 


123 


great taste. She also knew something of 
music, and had taught Beppo and his sister to 
sing in time, and as their voices were sweet 
and musical it was really pleasant to hear 
them. 

At first they were shy and awkward, and 
did not make much, but as they went farther 
from home, and as little Beppo’s confidence 
increased, they did much better. Often they 
got their supper and night’s lodging for a 
song ; and Beppo soon learned to know which 
were the best roads to take and the best towns 
to try, and in about three months from their 
first starting they found that they were not 
only able to live decently, but also to save a 
little money, which enabled them to avoid 
travelling in very bad weather, and to provide 
their mother with warmer clothing and better 
shoes. Besides, constant practice and the ex- 
ercise in the open air greatly improved the 
children’s voices, particularly that of Bianca, 
of which Beppo became now really proud, as 
indeed he well might be, for she was a charm- 
ing child in every way, and her only anxiety 
was to do what was right and to contribute to 
the happiness of everybody around her. It 


124 


THE YOUNG MUSICIANS. 


was her lips that every morning opened the 
day with prayer, before they set out on their 
journey, and she was never so happy as when 
on a Sunday she and Beppo were allowed to 
join the choir of some village church, and give 
praises to God in some of those magnificent 
liymns which Catholic genius and Catholic 
piety have given to the service and glory of 
the Most High. 

More than once, good and charitable people 
of rank and wealth, attracted by her grace and 
talents, and pitying her delicacy of feature 
and make, would have taken her into tlieir 
houses and reared her up, but poor Bianca’s 
loving heart was with her mother and Beppo, 
and she would have withered like a flower 
plucked from its stem were they separated. 
Besides, those who offered her this asylum did 
not in reality know how happy she was ; 
Beppo was to her a perfect hero, under whose 
protection she thought herself always safe, 
and in attending to the wants of her mother, 
conducting her safely, chatting to her, and in 
every way studying her comfort, she felt as 
much happiness as she desired, and far more 
than she could have done as the inhabitant of 


THE YOUNG MUSICIANS. 


125 


a palace without the presence of those who 
were so clear to her. 

In fact the life they led was pleasant 
enough, particularly during the fine weather, 
although at times, in their going from one 
town to another, they sometimes met with 
very unpleasant companions by the way. 
Generally, however, the age of the children 
and the blindness of the mother saved them 
from any serious annoyance, although on one 
occasion, when they were in a wild and moun- 
tainous country, they met with an adventure 
which had a serious effect on their future 
fate. 

They had been travelling all day, and ex- 
pected to reach a small town or hamlet by 
sunset, but when the sun went down and the 
evening began to close in, they were still 
amongst the hills. At last they came to what 
appeared to be the ruins of an old tower or 
castle, which they were about to pass, when 
three or four fierce-looking men, armed with 
guns, and with daggers in their belts, rushed 
out of it and stopped them. Beppo explained 
to them who he and his family were, and what 
their occupation was ; but this did not pre- 


126 


THE YOUNG MUSICIANS. 


vent the brigands (for such they were) from 
making prisoners of the three, notwithstand- 
ing the blind woman’s supplications and Bi- 
anca’s tears. They were brought into the 
ruined castle, and in one of the chambers, or 
rather vaults, they found the captain of the 
gang and many others drinking and singing.^ 
Before this man they were brought ; and al- 
though he ordered all their little store of 
money to be taken from Beppo, who carried 
it, still they were not otherwise ill-treated. 
Some food was given them, and then they 
were sent to sleep in an outside room on 
straw until morning, but not until Beppo and 
Bianca had sung many songs for the robber’s 
amusement, who j)romised them their freedom 
as a reward. 

Long after Bianca and her mother were 
asleep, Beppo remained awake ; kept so partly 
by the loud talk of the robbers in the other 
room, and partly by grief for the loss of his 
little store of money, which it had taken so 
many months to gather and save, and which 
he feared his mother might want. As the 
night advanced, and the jobbers continued to 
drink, they discussed their plans in a louder 


THE YOUNG MUSICIANS. 


127 


voice and in a more careless way, and as they 
did, so a name caught Beppo’s ear which 
caused him to listen more eagerly than before. 

This was the name of young Count Cor- 
naro, who had been lately married, and at 
whose house, during the marriage feasts and ’ 
revels, Beppo and his family had been kindly 
entertained for three or four days. The young 
count himself and his beautiful bride had often 
spoken to them ; and the countess was one of 
those who had proffered to take Bianca into 
her service and provide for her, if her family 
wdshed. Altogether, when they left the 
count’s presence and castle, they did so with 
grateful and thankful hearts, having been lib- 
erally entertained and rewarded for their sing- 
ing ; and now Beppo was thunder-struck at 
hearing the robbers discuss their plans for 
attacking Count Cornaro on the morrow, as 
they learned that he and his lady were to 
travel that road on their marriage tour to 
Rome. In fact, it was this scheme that had 
brought the brigands to that part of the coun- 
try ; and so certain were they of success that 
they laughed in glee, and even gambled for 
the spoils before they were won. 


128 


THE YOUNG MUSICIANS. 


All at once, however, in the midst of their 
discussion, one of the band reminded the 
captain that the singers might be awake ; and 
although he laughed at this at first, still, on 
second thoughts, he said he would make him- 
self sure, as, if they were, they must be kept 
close prisoners or otherwise disjDOsed of. 
Accordingly he took a lamp from the table 
and walked, or rather staggered, into the 
room where Beppo, his mother, and Bianca 
slept. He first went to the side of the blind 
woman, but both she and her daughter were 
really sound asleep ; after he had listened to 
their breathing for some time he went to the 
straw pallet where Beppo was stretched ; but 
the boy, who knew the risk he ran, closed 
his eyes and breathed so naturally that he 
completely deceived the robber, who was con- 
vinced that he was as fast asleep as the rest. 

This done, the robber returned to his com- 
rades, while BejDpo prayed a prayer of grati- 
tude to God, but was far too much agitated 
to sleep a wink during the remainder of the 
niocht. In the morninoj he did not dare to stir 
until he was called by the robbers, although 
it was still early when one of them summoned 


THE YOUNG MUSICIANS. 


129 


him to appear before the leader. When he 
did so the captain asked him how he had 
slept, and whether he had been disturbed 
during the night, looking at him keenly as he 
spoke. But Beppo laughed, and said that 
weary travellers generally slept well, and that 
it must be a loud noise that would disturb 
him. At the same time he thanked the rob- 
ber for giving them shelter and food; and 
only asked leave to be allowed to go free, as 
his mother and sister were frightened at their 
confinement, and cared nothing for the money 
that had been taken from them, so they were 
released. 

All this Beppo said as calmly and feelingly 
as he could, and after getting some food, the 
whole family were discharged from the ruin, 
and a few copper coins were returned to 
them, although the silver and gold were kept. 
But Beppo did not care for this ; nor did he 
tell his mother what he had heard during the 
night, until they were a good distance from 
the robbers. Then he told her all about the 
intended attack on the good Count Cornaro, 
who had been so kind to them, and concerted 
with her what was best to be done, or rather 


130 


THE YOUKG MUSICIANS. 


informed her of what he intended to do, 
which was to leave her and Bianca at the next 
village, which was within sight, and then try 
if he could, not find Count Cornaro, and warn 
him of the danger he was about to face. 

When they descended the hills and had 
reached the little village, Beppo placed his 
mother and Bianca in the kitchen of a small 
inn, and went at once to the post-house him- 
self to try if there were horses ordered for the 
Count, or if the postmaster knew which way 
he was to come. Fortunately the postmaster 
was civil and talkative; and although just 
now in a great bustle, he found time to tell 
Beppo that the Count, his lady, and their, 
attendants were to change horses there in a 
short time. Hardly had he spoken, indeed, 
when the Count’s equipage dashed up, and he 
and his lady alighted and went into the house, 
while fresh horses were put to their carriage. 

It was an anxious moment to poor Beppo, 
who dared not follow them, and who feared 
that they might go away before he could 
speak to or caution them. He passed before 
the doors, and peeped in at the windows ; and 
at last, wdien he heard the courier say that 


THE YOUNG MUSICIANS. 


131 


the carriage was coming, he ventured into the 
house, and asked to speak to Count Gornarg ; 
the postmaster laughed in his face, and de- 
sired him to begone, for that the Count was 
better employed than in speaking to wander- 
ing beggar boys, but at the moment a voice at 
his elbow said that he was wrong, for that the 
ear of Count Cornaro Avas open to everybody 
Avho Avished to speak to him. In fact, it Avas 
the young Count himself, whose young Avife 
Avas leaning on his arm, who spoke. The 
postmaster bowed and retired, and the Count 
and Countess at once recognized Beppo, and 
asked where his mother and sister Avere, or if 
they were ill, the Count taking out his purse 
as he spoke in order to relieve him if he 
Avanted assistance. But Beppo said that he 
did not want money, but only required a few 
minutes’ audience in private, in order to tell 
tlie Count of a great danger that threatened 
him. The Count smiled good-naturedly, as 
much as to say that he disbelieved the boy’s 
fears ; but as the young Countess looked 
frightened, and asked that he should be heard, 
he desired Beppo to foUoAV him, and turned 
back again into the private room he had left. 


132 


THE YOUNG MUSICIANS. 


The boy’s story was so clear, and so well told, 
that it was imj^ossible to disbelieve it; the 
Count’s features and manner became much 
graver as he proceeded, and when he had told 
all he knew and had heard they became more 
serious still. It was evident that the danger 
was real, and that the robbers must have had 
accurate information from some one and be 
well prepared. The young Countess was 
greatly alarmed, but not so the Count. He 
at once determined to apply at the next mili- 
tary station for a guard ; and not only that, 
but to go with the soldiers himself and meet 
the robbers on their own ground. It was in 
vain that the Countess conjured him not to 
expose himself ; he only laughed at her fears, 
and told her that unless these brigands were 
now taken they would follow them and watch 
their opportunity for a safer attack. Mean- 
time both the Count and Countess were ex- 
ceedingly grateful to Beppo for the care and 
prudence he had evinced, and promised that 
his services should not be forgotten. 

The Count took him with him at once to 
the commandant of a military party whose 
barracks were in the neighborhood, w^here 


THE YOUNG MUSICIANS. 


13S 


Beppo again told liis story in his own quiet 
way as before, and was again praised by the 
officer for his intelligence and wish to be of 
use. The officer then asked him if he would 
have any objection to accompany the military 
party, in order to show them exactly where 
the robbers were hidden, and Beppo at once 
agreed to do so, only stipulating, that if any 
accident happened to liini, his mother and 
sister should be taken care of. The Count at 
once promised that this should be done, and 
then, having made their arrangements, the 
Count and Beppo went back to the post-house, 
and the officer got his men together, and 
promised to meet them at about a mile’s dis- 
tance, where the hills commenced. , 

The plan arranged upon was, that the 
Count’s carriage should be sent forward, and 
that as soon as the robbers stopped it, they 
should be at once surrounded or attacked. 
The officer, who was an old man and accus- 
tomed to deal with the brigands, undertook 
to have his men all ready, and the Count gave 
his orders to his own men, of whose fidelity 
he was sure, and then, after taking leave of 
the Countess, got into the carriage with 


134 


THE YOUi^'G MUSICIAiq'S. 


Beppo. They drove rapidly off, without any 
one being at all the wiser of what they were 
about to do, and at the place arranged they 
found the officer and some of his men, the 
rest having been already despatched by ones 
and twos, with orders to conceal themselves 
until summoned by the sound of the bugle to 
appear. 

Beppo was taken- up before one of the 
troopers, and then the wffiole party resumed 
their march, concealing themselves as much 
as possible as they advanced. The Count’s 
carriage, with the blinds down, and two sol- 
diers well armed within it, went on at a con- 
siderable distance before the troops, having 
been directed by Beppo which way they 
were to go. 

At last, however, at a turn of the mountain 
road, the ruined castle where the robbers were 
came in sight, and the boy pointed it out. Al- 
ready the Count’s carriage was near it, when 
a shrill whistle was heard, and from the ruin, 
as well as from behind hedges and rocks, at 
least twenty brigands started forth and 
stopped the coach. 

They had no sooner done so, however, than 


THE TOUXG MUSICIANS. 


135 


they found out their mistake. The soldier’s 
bugle sounded shrill, the scattered soldiers came 
running to the spot, and althougli some of the 
robbers fought their way and tried to escape, 
the majority of them were either captured or 
killed. Great, indeed, was the officer’s pleasure 
at having destroyed a ferocious band who had 
committed the most terrible crimes throughout 
Italy ; and still greater was the satisfaction 
of Count Cornaro at having escaped from 
their schemes. Beppo was carried back in 
triumph, and publicly thanked both by the 
Count and the officer for his spirit and good 
sense ; and the Count and Countess now in- 
sisted on being allowed to do something for 
his mother and Bianca, both of whom were 
sent for, and were, of course, delighted with 
his success. 

The offers which were made by the Count 
were such as could not be refused. Bejipo’s 
mother was taken back to the Count’s estate 
— to which the Countess wished to return 
after her escape — and there she and Bianca 
were settled in a pretty cottage, with a yearly 
income more than enough to satisfy all their 
humble wants. Beppo was sent to school by 


136 


THE YOUNG MUSICIANS. 


the Count, and when of a sufficient age was 
made his agent, a situation of trust and con- 
siderable emolument, which he holds to this 
very day. Even by the hands of a child 
have we thus seen that human life can be 
preserved and great injury and wrong pre- 
vented ; and we have written Beppo’s story 
and adventures in order to show to our young 
readers that courage, piety, and honesty do 
not belong to any age, and that it is pleasing 
to God to see youth cultivate those virtues and 
noble qualities, rather than to squander their 
time in idle pleasures and amusements, which 
may lead to great sin and all the evil conse- 
quences of sin hereafter. 




Ctaa 


KflJtS. 


ffl ARRY WHITE and Thomas Damphy 
were neighbor’s children, and the only 
children, too, of their respective parents, who 
were tradesmen and shopkeepers in respecta- 
ble and comfortable circumstances. These 
little boys would have agreed remarkably well 
only that their parents reared them on differ- 
ent systems and with different views. Har- 
ry’s father and mother dressed him very 
finely, never corrected him, and sent him to a 
school where children of much higher rank 
than himself were educated. ■ They encour- 
aged him “ to look high,” as they called it, and 
never to think of any other boy as being bet- 
ter than himself. The consequence of this 

137 


138 


THE TWO BOYS. 


imprudent plan of treatment was that poor 
Harry at eight or nine years of age was both 
conceited and unmanageable — trying to have 
his own way in everything, neglecting his les- 
sons, disobeying his parents, and caring very 
little for what was said to him in the way of 
advice or reproof. He was always crying out 
for sweetmeats and dainties, which made him 
sick, and for fine clothes, which he tore or 
dirtied the moment they were on his back. 
The greater part of his time was siDent in idle- 
ness, although it made him angry to hear peo- 
ple call ]iim a dunce, and to praise other boys 
much smaller than he was for being able to 
read and wnute, and say their catechism, and 
do many other things which he could not even 
attempt. 

N^ow, the parents of Tom Dumphy took 
altogether a different plan with him. His 
father was a cabinet-maker, and destined Tom 
for the same trade ; but although he had an 
excellent business, and was quite as w^ell off 
as the father of Harry White, still he never 
indulged his son in fine clothes, or allowed him 
to neglect his tasks or to disobey himself ; he 
was far too wise for that. And here again the 


THE TWO BOYS. 


139 


effects of such good training were obvious. 
Tom, at the same age as Harry, was a clean, 
well-dressed, tidy, healthy, well-conducted lit- 
tle fellow, who was beloved and well-spoken 
of by everybody, and was as well pleased with 
himself as his friends were with him. He had 
a right to be so, since he did his best to earn 
the good-will of every one, and, therefore, in 
return, all who addressed or approached him 
were only too happy to show how much they 
esteemed and valued him, young as he was. 

Harry White, who lived almost next door 
to the house of Tom’s father, saw and knew 
all this. It was in vain that he put on his gay 
clothes, and treated his comrades to cakes, and 
fruits, and sweetmeats; still, although they 
accepted his treats, he saw at once that they 
thought a great deal more of Tom than they 
did of him, although Tom was always plainly 
dressed, and never had money enough to treat 
them at all. 

In fact, Tom’s pocket-money was always 
laid out in books or in charity, for he had one 
or two “ old pensioners ” to whom he gave a 
weekly sum, because they were poor and old, 
and because the Catholic Church, in obedience 


140 


THE TWO BOYS. 


to the commandments of God, enjoins kindness 
to the needy and the helpless ; and then, with 
•whatever surplus he had to spare, he purchased 
books, which increased his knowledge and 
amused his mind at the same time. 

These things brought him both honor and 
respect, and in proportion as Harry White 
saw this, he became jealous and envious of the 
boy whom he as yet called his friend. Instead 
of trying to surpass him in goodness or clever- 
ness, he made little of him to others, and affect- 
ed to despise him himself. Tom, who really 
liked Harry, or would have done so had he al- 
lowed him, bore with all this cheerfully, and did 
his best to conciliate, until he found that to do 
so was almost impossible. Then he drew off 
and sought other companions, who were only 
too happy to leave Harry and to play or walk 
with him, for he always treated them kindly 
and courteously, and told them something 
which they did not know before ; whilst, on 
the contrary, when they were with Harry, he 
looked down upon them, and could only speak 
of his fine clothes, and the fine things he got 
to eat, and of his dislike to be ‘‘ fagged ” with 
study, and of a new pony which his father was 


THE TWO BOYS. 


141 


foolish enough to promise him, and which set 
him quite beside himself with joy and vanity. 

Poor boy ! he did not know that those who 
listened to his boastings laughed at him be- 
hind his back, and called him “ a conceited 
dunce ” for his pains. Amidst all his pleasure 
the great drawback was that Tom kept aloof 
from him, and continued to be spoken of by 
others in a way that galled Harry to the heart. 
He would have quarrelled with Tom and chal- 
lenged him to fight if he dared, but Tom, al- 
tliough particularly mild and amiable, was 
both stronger and more courageous than him- 
self, and therefore he shrunk from coming to 
blows or offering an open insult, which he well 
knew that Tom had spirit enough to resent at 
once. 

But, like most others who have money to 
spend, and who are not careful of the charac- 
ter of those on whom they spend it, Harry had 
picked up some three or four companions as 
idle, but older than himself. Two of these 
were brothers, named Mark and Jack Lucas, 
and were amongst his chief favorites; with 
these he gave free vent to his envious displeas- 
ure against poor Tom. They also hated him, 


142 


THE TWO BOYS. 


for he never joined them or associated with 
them, as he had been warned by his father not 
to do so. 

Amongst other things, these boys possessed 
a fierce bulldog, which was the terror of the 
neighborhood, and which they had trained to 
do as they bid him. This fierce brute was 
named Nero, and it was suggested to Harry 
by these bad boys that if he would give them 
half-a-crown they would find an opportunity 
of setting N ero at Tom, and causing him both 
fright and injury by way of a despicable re- 
venge. To this most sinful and shameful pro- 
posal Harry agreed, strictly enjoining that the 
attack should be kept a profound secret, and 
that his name should never be mentioned at 
all. To all this they agreed, and Harry hav- 
ing procured the money from his mother paid 
it beforehand. 

The time chosen was in the evening, wh^n 
Tom was returning from a country walk, and 
in a lonely place, where there was no one to 
protect him. The owners of the dog con- 
cealed themselves behind the hedge, and when 
the unconscious Tom passed the place where 
they were hidden, Nero was ordered to attack 


THE TWO BOYS. 


143 


him by the command of “ At him, 'Nero ; hold 
him fast.” They then patted him on the back 
and let him go, when he dashed through the 
hedge, and at once made at poor Tom with the 
utmost fury. He leaped at the boy, and in a 
moment had him stretched on the earth, and 
began worrying him in the most violent man- 
ner. Tom tried to protect himself, but in 
doing so the brute bit his hands, his face, and 
tore his clothes ; indeed, he would have done 
him a mortal injury were it not that two or 
three reapers returning from work, hearing 
Tom’s cries, came running to the spot, and 
seeing how ferocious the dog was, attacked 
him with their reaping-hooks, and, after wound- 
ing him greatly, sent him howling away. The 
boys ran away also for fear of being punished, 
but as 4he dog was known the, whole matter 
was spoken of, and Tom’s father would have 
punished them severely only for the interces- 
sion' of Tom himself, who, although much 
torn, was not seriously injured after all. 

As evil people are seldom true to them- 
selves the whole conspiracy between the Lu- 
cases and Harry White gradually got to be 
known, and Harry became ten times more dis- 


144 


THE TWO BOYS. 


liked by young and old than he ever was be- 
fore. He did not care much for that, how- 
ever, as by this time he had got his new pony, 
and was supported by his father and mother, 
who believed his lying denial, and seemed a 
great deal fonder of him than before. 

When Tom recovered and heard the reports 
that were about Harry, he went to him and 
asked him if they could be true, as he hoped 
he had never done anything to earn his ill- 
will. He even extended to him his hand, and 
wanted him to be friends with him as he had 
once been, but unfortunately Harry was too 
proud to accept the advances of the well-mean- 
ing Tom ; and whilst he denied having any- 
thing to do with the attack, thereby adding 
sin to sin, he, at the same time, told Tom that 
he did not want his friendship any more, ‘and 
that he would not give up the Lucases as com- 
panions for him or any one else. Tom, thus 
repulsed, said no more but went away ; but 
he still heard, from time to time, that Harry 
was getting more idle every day, and that the 
Lucases had introduced him to a sad set, who 
blasphemed and used bad words, and in every 
way neglected their duties both to God and 
man. 


THE TWO BOYS. 


145 


One Sunday evening, as Tom was returning 
with his father and mother from a walk after 
dinner, they passed Harry and five or six 
others, who were looking at Harry riding his 
pony, and making it gallop up and down in a 
very violent and cruel way. Tom and his 
parents passed on, however, and had got a 
good distance on their way home, when Tom, 
on looking behind him, saw Mark Lucas give 
Harry’s pony a violent stroke with a whip, 
and the maddened animal, rendered ungov- 
ernable by pain, refused to yield to the rein, 
and ran headlong away with Harry on his 
back. Tom, who knew the country well, saw 
that the pony was making straight for a preci- 
pice, down which, if he fell, he and his rider 
must be dashed to pieces ; and, leaving his 
father’s side, he ran across the field, in the 
hope to be able to stop him or turn him 
away. Mr. Dumphy followed him, and be- 
tween them they endeavored to save poor 
Harry from his fall. To a certain extent they 
succeeded, althougli, in grasping at the pony’s 
reins, the animal turned short and fell, having 
his rider under him. When Mr. Dumphy 
lifted him he was insensible, partly from 


146 


THE TWO BOYS. 


injury and partly from friglit. Tom’s father 
sent immediately for assistance, for the boys 
who were the cause of the accident had all 
run away, and having procured a conveyance, 
Harry was brought home and laid on his bed, 
liis leg badly broken, and his body otherwise 
much injured. 

Nothing could be better than Tom’s be- 
havior to his wounded friend. Full of pity 
and good-will, he overlooked his enmity, and 
asked to be allowed to stay and attend him, 
and hear what the doctors might say. Harry’s 
father and mother, won by Tom’s sorrow and 
kindness, willingly consented to receive him 
when he could be spared from home, and 
from that day forth Tom spent nearly as 
much of his time in Harry’s sick room as he 
did in his own father’s house. During the 
period of his recovery, which was very slow, 
Tom was indefatigable in his attentions ; and 
although at first Harry was somewhat ashamed 
of receiving them, after a short time he looked 
for them, and was never so easy as when Tom 
was by his bedside. For weeks, and even 
months, this continued, but Tom never tired. 
He talked to the invalid, or read to him ; and 


THE TWO BOYS. 


147 


when he was able to attend he taught him how 
to do many useful things of which Harry never 
had an idea before. One thing was peculiarly 
pleasant to this amiable, intelligent, and riglit- 
minded boy, namely, that Harry, in his new 
spirit, greatly preferred him to his former 
companions, some of whom sometimes called 
on him, but gave him little pleasure to see. 
The two Lucases, in particular, he never 
wished to see again, as he now remembered 
the many sinful things they had said in his 
presence, and the many bad and disobedient 
things they had taught him to do. He ac- 
knowledged that it was they who had pro- 
posed to attack Tom with the bulldog, Hero, 
and had taken his money for doing so. 

In consequence of these confessions Harry’s 
father went to the father of Lucas, and made 
such a complaint against the brothers that 
the boys were obliged to be sent awmy in 
order to avoid the public odium which at- 
tended them wherever they went. 

When Harry was again able to go about, 
his love for Tom continued, and his reforma- 
tion also. He now was as obedient and hum- 
ble as he had formerly been the reverse, and 


148 


TPIE TWO BOYS. 


instead of staying from school and idling 
about, he was always ready to join the imnc- 
tual Tom, and had learned his tasks so well 
that he was now frequently the head of his 
class. He said his prayers punctually, night 
and morning, in a proper and de^'out spirit, 
and greatly pleased the Reverend Mr. O’Con- 
nor, the parish priest, by his proficiency in his 
catechism, and his great attention to his reli- 
gious duties. 

Row all this was done by Tom Dumphy, 
who, although little more than a child in 
years, was, as we have seen, a boy of uncom- 
mon intelligence and goodness of disposition 
and heart. Had he been otherwise he would 
have acted a very different part, and instead 
of securing the affection and confidence of 
Harry, he would have returned evil for evil, 
and wrong for wrong, and these boys would 
thus have grown up, hating each other with 
an unchristian hate, and endeavoring to injure 
and talk ill of each other in every way they 
could. 

But we are not quite done with Harry 
White. When he was about twelve years of 
age his father died suddenly, and although, 


THE TWO BOYS. 


149 


up to the period of his death, he was sup- 
posed to be in comfortable circumstances if 
not positively rich, still, when his funeral was 
over and his affairs arranged, it was found 
that he had lived beyond his means, and had 
left his family in debt. At a former time 
this would have almost broken Harry’s heart, 
but now he willingly parted with his pony 
and his fine clothes, and did his best to con- 
sole his mother by his manly resignation and 
attention to her wants. 

Still more, he now found that the friends 
whom he had earned by his good conduct 
were infinitely more serviceable than the com- 
panions of his idle hours could have ever 
been. Tom Dumphy’s father, in particular, 
distinguished himself by his kindness towards 
the widow and the orphan of his old friend. 
He was always a prudent man, who knew to 
a farthing what he was worth, and never 
went beyond it. He was content with what 
God had given him, and never sought to 
increase it by any risk. Early and late he 
was at his business, and being greatly re- 
spected, he was now enabled to make such a 
settlement with the creditors of White, that 


150 


THE TWO BOYS. 


his widow was able to continue the business 
on a smaller scale, and Harry became to her 
both an assistant in his leisure hours and a 
comfort at all times. It so happened, too, 
that he was able, after some time, to repay 
the former kind offices of his considerate 
friend. 

Tom, during the heat of summer, was 
seized with a bad fever, and, from the mo- 
ment he was pronounced to be in danger, 
Harry hardly quitted his bedside. He soothed 
his ravings, dressed his blisters, administered 
his medicines, and in every way assisted tlie 
poor sufferer’s mother by his sympathy and 
kind words. At night he jorayed for and 
with him, and during his recovery still re- 
mained with him as much as possible, and 
read to and amused him until Tom was able 
to go to business again. Of course these 
marks of brotherly love made the friendslii]) 
of the boys still more firm, and as time rolled 
on they were remarked by every one both for 
the 2^urity and propriety of their lives, and 
for the never-ceasing regard they entertained 
for each other. It was delightful to see them 
growing in virtue as they increased in 


THE TWO BOYS. 


151 


strength, and still more delightful to witness 
the reverence with which Harry White looked 
up to one hardly older than himself, but who 
had still become to him both a preserver and 
a guide. 

It was the triumph of principle, and every 
young person who reads this story ought to 
reflect seriously on the means by which Tom 
Dumphy gained it ; not by any dashing or 
shining show, but by a constant attention to 
God’s commands, and by a diligent ‘cultiva- 
tion of the virtues they enjoin. By these 
means he bore patiently with Harry’s insults 
and pride, and when opportunity served, he 
rendered back good for evil, and proved him- 
self superior to malice or ill-will, as every true 
Christian ought. It is pleasant to add that 
the business which Harry’s father left in 
such extremity gradually improved, partly by 
Mrs. White’s care, and still more by Harry’s 
attention, and the courtesy and humility of 
manner with which every one was pleased. 
He is now the head of the establishment, for 
his mother has given it up to him, wliile our 
friend Tom is his father’s partner, and prom- 
ises to realize a fortune equal to his wishes 
and his wants. 



f |e SbfcentuitB of a little Jrammee* 
\ — 

T the commencement of the Indian mu- 

tiny, of which every one has heard so 

much, Terence Hannigan, whose father was a 
corporal in a British regiment, was a drum- 
mer in the same corps. The little fellow, al- 
' though tall and stout, was barely nine years 
of age, but as his father was particularly well- 
conducted and liked by his officers, and as the 
boy had been very attentive in the regimental 
school, and, moreover, evinced a taste for 
music, he was selected to beat the drum, and 
through the kindness of the officers was thus 
allowed to remain under the eyes of his 
father, and given employment and pay at the 
same time. Soon after his appointment a 
detachment of the regiment was sent up the 

152 


A LITTLE DRUMMER. 


153 


country to relieve another part, and the place 
to which they were sent was what is called 
a “fort” or castle among the hills. 

Here for some time they lived quietly, as 
the mutiny had not yet broken out. The sol- 
diers, not having much duty to do, occasionally 
went out and mixed among the natives, many 
of whom took a liking to little Terence, who 
was a lively, pleasant little fellow, and played 
with the children, amusing himself and doing 
his best to amuse them in his turn. Among 
others, he was admitted into the family of a 
man of some consequence, a sort of chief, who 
spoke a little English, and wished his sons, of 
whom he had three, to learn it also. In an 
excursion among the hills it so happened that 
the eldest of these boys, who was his father’s 
favorite, was saved from great danger by the 
courage and presence of mind of Terence, 
who plunged into a deep mountain pool after 
him, into which he had fallen, and supported 
him until an attendant arrived to take him 
out. The father, when he heard this, was 
more friendly than ever towards his child’s 
preserver, and lavished presents on him of 
fruits and sweetmeats, asking him still more 


154 


THE ADVENTURES OP 


frequently to his house than ever, and doing 
his best to show his gratitude in every way 
he could. 

At last, however, came the sad intelligence 
that the mutiny had broken out, and as a 
strong body of sepoys occupied the next sta- 
tion or fort to that in which Terence’s regi- 
ment was, great fear was felt that they 
would rebel, also, and try to take that which 
the English detachment occupied. Of these 
there were only about thirty men and an of- 
ficer ; and as the native population was not to 
be depended on, the greatest precautions were 
taken., as the English were a long way distant 
from their friends, and completely cut off 
from help. 

Lieutenant Goodison, who commanded the 
little garrison, was young and rash, and al- 
though he took Corporal Hannigan’s advice, 
and got in as much provisions as he could, for 
fear of being besieged, still he undervalued the 
strength and courage of the sepoys, and was 
not as cautious as he ought to have been in 
attending to the fortifications of the place. 
When at last he attempted to do so, he then 
began to see that the natives were not to be 


A LITTLE DRUMMER. 


155 


depended on, for they refused to work, and 
would not, on one pretence or other, even 
supply him with the materials, for which he 
was willing to pay. 

At last the crisis came, and the enemy 
appeared before the fort and summoned it 
to surrender. But as Lieutenant Goodison 
expected that relief Avould be sent him by his 
superiors, and as he knew that the brutal se- 
poys would have little mercy on him or his 
men, he refused to yield, and bravely defended 
the place for some days. Still, as his provi- 
sions ran out and as the sepoys were reinforced 
by others, affairs began to look very bad, and 
the worst apprehensions were entertained for 
the final result. Fortunately, there were no 
women in the fort, and, when all hope of re- 
lief had vanished, the commander determined 
to remain shut up no longer, but to issue forth 
in the night and cut his way through his ene- 
mies or perish in the attempt. 

There were two or three boys in the force, 
but none of them were as young as poor Ter- 
ence, the little drummer, although none among 
them bore the hardships and fatiguing duty, 
night and day, so well. To be sure, Terence 


156 


TPIE ADVENTURES OP 


had his father to sustain him, and as the cor- 
poral was a good and pious Catholic, they 
often united in prayer, and felt all the cour- 
age and consolation it brings ; but now, when 
tlie commander’s final resolution was taken, it 
was a trial hard for the father’s heart to bear 
to think what might be the issue to his brave 
little boy. To do the men justice, every precau- 
tion was taken for the young; they were to be 
placed in the middle of the force, who were 
to close round and protect them in every way 
they could. 

A dark night was chosen for the dangerous 
attempt, and a code of signals and passwords 
established, and the men were directed to 
keep well together, and to content themselves 
by forcing their way on and acting solely in 
self-defence. About twelve o’clock the final 
signal was given, and in a few minutes the 
devoted little band issued from the fort and 
commenced their desperate retreat. 

At first they were unopposed, but as they 
proceeded they found that their active ene- 
mies were wide awake and ready to opjDose 
them. Charge after charge was made upon 
them, and volley after volley fired ; many a 


A LITTLE DRUMM:ER. 


157 


groan was heard and many a prayer ; men 
dropped and were obliged to be left behind ; 
and the worst of it was, that the soldiers were 
not able to keep together, but were separated, 
:ind began to scatter in the dark. In fact, 
before long they were totally broken ; and, by 
daybreak, those who had not tried to escape 
by themselves, or who had fallen, were made 
prisoners either by the sepoys or by the 
natives who assisted them. 

Corporal Hannigan had been twice wound- 
ed ; once by a shot on the right shoulder, 
which partly disabled him, and again by a 
sword-cut in the left wrist, which had left an 
ugly gash, although Terence, who was un- 
touched, had bound uj) both wounds with his 
own and his father’s handkerchief. Father 
and child had remained together during this 
dismal night; and when at length they were 
surrounded and made prisoners, they had the 
satisfaction to be taken by the same party and 
confined in the same place. 

This was in a sort of cattle-slied to which 
they were hurried, or rather carried along by 
their triumphant foes, and which they found 
already filled by eight or ten of their wounded 


158 


THE ADVE]S^TURES OF 


or wearied comrades and countrymen. In the 
course of the morning a pitcher of water was 
given them and some coarse black bread ; and 
towards evening a number of sepoys came in, 
and one of them, who spoke English, desired 
four of the prisoners to follow him, in ordeT 
that they might stand their trial by a court- 
martial for not surrendering the fort. 

Those poor fellows who were left behind 
were not long in learning tlie fate of their un- 
fortunate friends, for in less tlian half-an-hour 
a loud discharge of musketry and a brutal 
shout, with some faint groans from without, 
told that all was over. Again the door opened 
and the same ferocious man appeared, desir- 
ing all the prisoners but Corporal Hannigan 
and Terence to follow him as before. Two of 
these poor fellows had to be supported, for 
tliey could not walk, but still they were forced 
forward brutally, and were told that in a few 
minutes they would be rid of pain and trouble 
forever. Once more, after a short interval, 
the discharge of fire-arms, the brutal shout, 
and the groans of the dying were heard by 
the survivors, although for the remainder of 
the day Terence and his father were left undis- 


A LITTLE \dRUMMER. 159 

I 

turbed. They occupied their time in prayer, 
placing their trust in Jesus and in Mary, as 
their Saviour and mediatrix, either to permit 
of their escape from earthly suffering and 
peril, or to receive their souls into a joyful 
immortality ; and then, witli minds and hearts 
consoled and elevated by their constant and 
earnest communion with heaven, they sank to 
sleep beside each other. 

After some time Terence felt himself 
stirred ; and when he awoke and started up, 
he saw an elderly woman standing beside him 
with a lantern in h^r hand. She placed her 
finger on her lips and said in a low voice, 
pointing to his father, who still slept on, 
‘‘ Come ; no speak, but come.” She again 
pointed to the corporal, and Terence awakened 
him and explained what the woman said. In 
a moment his father comprehended their po- 
sition, and said, “ We are in the hands of 
God, my child, and the woman may be sent as 
His instrument to serve His servants who have 
petitioned Him for mercy and help. We will 
follow her as she desires.” 

The old woman, when she saw that they 
were disposed to obey her, produced two large 


160 


THE ADVEJSTTURES OF 


cloaks or shawls with which she covered them, 
and directing them to leave their caps behind, 
she drew the hoods of the cloaks over their 
heads, so that in the dark they might be taken 
for females. When this was done she extin- 
guished the light, and cautiously opened the 
door of the shed. She looked out, and seeing 
that the way was clear, she beckoned them to 
come on, and then hastily glided forward, 
keeping as much as possible under the shadow 
of the wall as she went along. Instead of 
going through the gate of the court or yard in 
which the building stood, she stopped at a 
broken part of the wall and leaped lightly to 
the ground, they following her in the same 
noiseless way. 

Still she went on until she came to an open 
space, where she was suddenly stopped by, 
three or four men who were the sepoy patrol, 
and who questioned her in a harsh imperious 
tone. What she said to them her companions 
knew not, but it was satisfactory, as they al- 
lowed her to pass and did not ask to examine 
those who accompanied her. The stoppage 
frightened her greatly, however, for when 
she took Terence’s hand to hasten him- for- 


A LITTLE DRUMMER. 


161 


ward, her own was cold and clammy, and she 
trembled a great deal. Moreover, she quick- 
ened her pace into a run, and turned oft* into 
a dark wood immediately ; through this she 
seemed to know her way perfectly ; and when 
she saw lier companions come out of it on the 
other side they crossed a field or two, then 
went through a gate, and Terence and his 
father found themselves in sight of a long low 
building, towards a side door of which the 
woman advanced. At this door a man met 
them, and simply saying to the female, “ You 
have done well; I thank you,” the woman dis- 
appeared in the darkness, and the stranger 
desired the corporal and his boy to follow 
him. They did so accordingly, and after tra- 
versing different long passages, their con- 
ductor stopped and ushered them into a room 
which was lighted by a lamp, and contained a 
a good deal of lumber, some broken furniture, 
and a large bed. 

By the light of the lamp Terence Hannigan 
at once discovered the man who brought them 
there to be tlie chief whose son he had once 
saved from drowning, and in whose family he 
had often since been a welcome guest. When 


162 THE ADYENTURES 

this man had made fast the door he explained 
to them what he had done. He was one of the 
natives who had not joined the mutineers nor 
wished to do so, but as the general feeling of 
the people was with them he dared not oppose 
them openly. Watched as he was, and in 
danger of his life, he had to be particularly 
cautious in all that he did. But as he had in- 
fluence and friends he made himself ac- 
quainted with all that happened ; and it was 
througli the bribes he had given to those who 
had the safe-keeping of the j^risoners who 
were taken in the fight that the little drum- 
mer, for whose safety he was so much inter- 
ested, and his father, were not hurried to 
death as their friends had been. 

He explained to them, moreover, that al- 
though for the present they were safe, still 
that there danger was by no means over. 
When it should be discovered that they had 
escaped from their prison a search would be 
sure to be made for them in the morning, and 
it must rest on chance whether their j^lace of 
refuge would protect them, or whether they 
would be dragged from it and slaughtered 
like the rest of their unfortunate comrades. 


A LITTLE DRUMMER. 


163 


He made no secret that he ran great risk him- 
self in shielding them, but his own sense of 
humanity and gratitude made him overlook all 
the danger he ran, and induced him to perse- 
vere to the end. Accordingly, with the assist- 
ance of the female, who was a faithful servant 
of his family, and in whom he could place im- 
plicit trust, he procured Terence and his father 
some food and coffee, and when they had fin- 
ished their repast he left them, locking the 
door after him and telling them what to do. 
Kneeling down and giving God thanks for 
having so far protected them and brought them 
through such great and pressing peril, the cor- 
poral and his boy lay down once more side by 
side, and this time slept in peace. 

Early in the morning, however, their kind 
liost unlocked the door and told them with 
some marks of alarm that he had been abroad, 
and found that the rebels were very indignant 
at their prisoners’ escape, and that suspicion 
had been directed against him ; in the first 
place, because it was known that he favored 
the little drummer, and secondly, because the 
woman who had been his ascent was recos:- 
nized by one of the patrol, who was a native 
and not a stranger. 


164 


THE ADVENTURES OF 


“ The fellows know that I am comfortable 
in my circumstances,”, said the chief, “and 
they would be well jDleased to find a jDretence 
for quarrelling with me in order to plunder 
my house; besides, I have some enemies in 
the neighborhood Avho would be only too 
happy to join them. But I have friends and 
followers also ; and tliose I have summoned 
to come and defend me if necessary, for 1 will 
not suffer you or my property to be injured 
while I can defend either. In the meantime 
you must come with me to a safer place of 
refuge than this, and which I have j)repared 
for you, as Hassan, the leader of the sepoys, 
will be sure to come here and search.'^’ 

In fact, as he spoke, the woman who had 
rescued Terence from prison opened the door, 
and with great anxiety and fear spoke to her 
master. He dismissed her, and then said to 
the corporal, “ They are coming sooner than 
I expected ; but fear not, I will save you, if it 
can be done.” Leaving the room, he ran, 
accompanied by them, down an alley which 
was shadowed with orange trees, and at the 
bottom of which was a sort of summer-house, 
very much dilapidated, and only used for 
storing wood and other useless^ matters. 


A LITTLE DRUMMER. 


166 


Even this the good-natured chief did not 
think safe enough, but raising a trap-door, he 
made his friends descend into a vault or cel- 
lar, which was dark and damp, but sufficiently 
larsfe to admit of them standing: and even 
walking a little. When they were deposited 
til ere he closed the cover or trap, and heaping 
all the wood over it, with the other things 
also, he went his way. 

For some time nothing was heard; but an 
hour had hardly elapsed when the fugitives 
became aware, by the noise over their heads, 
that a number of people were in the room. 
They heard loud talking, and even the re- 
moval of the wood; but after a time these 
unpleasant sounds subsided, and the place 
was as quiet as before. It was not until 
evening, however, that their friend appeared, 
which he did with an altered and joyous face, 
saying to them, “You may come forth in 
safety, for your friends are here.” 

At first Terence nor his father did not un- 
derstand what he meant, but when they 
ascended they found themselves surrounded 
by British soldiers, a strong party of whom 
had been sent to relieve the fort. Unfortu- 


166 


TBE ADVENTURES OF 


nately it was too late for the greater number 
of those who occupied it, and who had been 
killed in battle or slaughtered in cold blood. 
But their coming insured the safety of Cor- 
poral Hannigan and his son, as the sepoys had 
lied at their approach. The effect was also 
pleasant to the kind-hearted chief, for he w’^as 
subsequently well rewarded for having saved 
the lives of two British subjects, which he 
undoubtedly had. 

All the chief’s family gathered about their 
“little drummer,” as they always called Ter- 
ence, and the boy whose life he had saved 
threw himself on his neck and wept tears of 
joy. Of course now all danger was over, and 
Terence and his father were conducted back 
to Calcutta safe and sound, loaded with pres- 
ents from the grateful chief and every mem- 
ber of his family. 

Having thus told my story to my young 
readers, I can assure them that it is really 
founded on fac% and I am delighted to have 
an opportunity of recording it, because it will 
prove that even boys and little children can 
be very useful, and can earn for themselves a 
title to the affections and services of those 


A LITTLE DRUMMER. 


167 


older than they are, by the exercise of such 
qualities as all can command and every one 
should cherish ; thus Terence was courageous, 
gay, good-tempered, pious, and obliging ; and 
as he had proved himself ready and willing to 
do his best to serve others, so, in his time of 
fearful trial, did they return the compliment, 
and at great risk to themselves were, under 
God, the means of saving him and the father 
he loved from a violent and bloody death. 




Slkkfl anb Ijis Jog. 
\ 


POOR dog was wandering through 
the village of Cloughnakilty for some 
days, until at last three or four idle boys took 
it outside the town, and, after some very bar- 
barous usage, put a rope round its neck, and 
determined' to hang it from a tree. Just as 
they were on the point of doing so, Michael 
M’Kenna happened to pass by. He was not 
older than the eldest of the little tyrants, but 
he was much more sensible and humane than 
any of them, and between remonstrances and 
threats he induced them to forego their cruel 
intentions, and give the poor animal up to 
him. They laughed and jeered a good deal 
at his soft-heartedness, but he did not care for 

168 


MICHAEL AND HIS DOG. 


169 


that, and took the poor dog home in his arms, 
as he well knew that his father and mother 
would be j^leased with his humanity, and give 
him leave to keep the creature whose life he 
had preserved. When they had heard his 
account of the matter they willingly yielded 
to his wish, particularly as the dog was young, 
and promised to be handsome when he had 
recovered his good looks by food and care. 

In fact, after a few days it could hardly be 
known, for Michael divided his meals with it, 
and made it his constant companion and 
friend ; and as time went on Ranger became 
one of the handsomest and most intelligent 
creatures of the kind that ever was seen. He 
very soon learned to fetch and carry, to beg 
for his food, to give his paw, and to return 
and look for things that had been left behind. 
He was besides a most faithful attendant, and 
always kept strict watch over the house at 
night ; and, indeed, by his good qualities 
proved to Michael that the good and humane 
act of saving his life was now in course of 
meeting with its own reward. 

One day Michael was asked by two or three 
young friends of his to go out and fish in a 


170 


MICHAEL AND HIS DOG. 


boat, as he lived near the sea, and, although 
with some reluctance, liis father and mother 
permitted him to go, as the weather was very 
calm, and the sea was as smooth as glass. 
As usuab when he set out Ranger followed 
him ; some of his comrades objected to taking 
the dog with them, as the boat was small, but 
Michael pitied poor Ranger’s beseeching face, 
and said that he would not go at all unless 
his dog was allowed to go with him. After 
some further objection this was allowed, and, 
as if to prove his thankfulness. Ranger lay 
down quietly in the stern of the boat and 
never stirred. 

At first, and during the early part of the 
day, everything went on very well ; their little 
sail carried them gallantly on, and they were 
so pleased, and caught so many fish, that they 
went much farther than they originally in- 
tended to do. But towards evening the 
weather changed and the wind rose ; it began 
to rain, and the waves grew larger and larger, 
and some of the younger boys got deadly 
sick. Michael alone, who was the bravest 
and most sensible, kept up their hearts as 
well as he could, and endeavored to steer the 


MICHAEL AND HIS DOG. 


171 


boat back to the shore ; but the shore was a 
long way off, and the wind had changed ; so 
that, instead of going straight liome, these 
unfortunate boys were gradually getting closer 
and closer to a rocky and barren part of the 
shore, where, if the boat ran, it would in all 
likelihood be dashed to pieces instantly. 

For some time they endeavored to change 
her course again, but alas ! the storm became 
greater, and these poor children gave them- 
selves up for lost, and began to beseech God 
Almighty to have pity on their helpless state. 
It was now near to dark ; and at last the boat, 
rising on the top of a great wave, struck on a 
pointed rock, and in . another minute all who 
were in it were struggling for life amidst the 
roaring waves. 

Michael M’Kenna knew how to swim a 
little, and strove to keep himself above the 
water as long as he could ; but his strength 
soon forsook him, and he was just about to 
give himself up for lost when his hair was 
seized by his faithful Ranger, and after a long 
struggle Michael was able to reach the shore, 
the only one of .his companions who did so 
alive. He was very much exhausted, and lay 


172 


MICHAEL AND HIS DOG. 


on the rocks without being able to stir; but 
Kanger rushed here and tliere, and meeting 
some 23eoj)le who were on the coast, actually 
induced them to follow liim to wliere Michael 
lay, by his barking and whining, and who, 
when they heard the j)itiful moans of the 
anxious animal, went after him, and very soon 
discovered the cold and all but lifeless body 
of Michael on the shore. He was just able to 
tell them who he was, and where his father 
and mother lived, and, as they were good and 
charitable Christians, tliey brought him care- 
fully home and restored him to his parents, 
who were afraid they had lost him forever. 

After this great service Hanger became a 
greater favorite than ever, and never by any 
chance quitted MichaePs side. It so haj)- 
pened that one evening the young boy was 
sent of a message to a neighboring town by 
his father, and, as it was in a hurry, he thouglit 
he would take the short cut which led through 
some fields. He was not aware that in one of 
these fields a farmer in the neighborhood had 
placed a bull, which had the reputation of 
being exceedingly wild and vicious. Xor did 
Michael see the beast until he was in the 


MICHAEL AND HIS DOG. 


173 


middle of the field. His attention was first 
drawn to the animal by hearing a loud roar 
or bellow, and by seeing the ball lashing him- 
self into a rage and beating his sides with his 
tail. Poor Michael gave himself up for lost, 
and although he began to run as fast as he 
was able towards the gate, still, as the bull 
came rushing and roaring on after him, he 
had hardly a hope that he would be able to 
climb over it before he 'Was gored, and tossed, 
and trampled by the bull. 

To make matters worse, on looking round 
to see what distance was between them, his 
foot struck against a stone, and he fell pros- 
trate on the field. On came the furious beast, 
however, with his eyes glowing like fire, and 
his head down, in order to raise j^oor Michael 
on his terrible horns. But just at this fearful 
moment the bull was attacked from behind 
by the faithful Ranger, and instead of tossing 
Michael had to defend himself. The dog had 
seized him by the haunch, and, holding on by 
it, caused great jDain and annoyance to the 
bull, who now began to roar with fear instead 
of rage, and endeavored to shake off his en- 
emy in vain. Meantime Michael arose to his 


174 


MICHAEL AND HIS DOG. 


feet and continued his way to the gate, which 
was now opened by two or three men, who 
had heard the noise from the house, and who 
came armed witli sticks to beat away the bull. 
But the noble Ranger had already saved his 
owner’s life, and all the men had to do was to 
chase the bull into a distant part of the field, 
when they had separated him from the dog, 
wlio did not seem to be at all afraid of him, 
but barked at him, and seemed disposed to 
continue the battle. Thus did the grateful 
Ranger a second time iH’eserve Michael M’Ken- 
na’s life, as a reward for having performed 
towards him a kind act, which his own hu- 
mane and well-taught heart directed him to do. 

The trade which Michael’s father followed 
was that of a carpenter, and he had a large 
workshop on the ground floor of his house, in 
which his materials were kept, and where his 
apprentices and workmen worked. As he was 
an honest, sober, and industrious tradesman, 
he was always kept busy, and consequently 
gave employment to a great many men and 
boys. But although he was as diligent and 
cautious as any one could be, still many of 
those who worked for him were quite other* 


MICHAEL AND HIS DOG. 


175 


wise, and in boiling glue and j^itch, and leav- 
ing wood and shavings too near the fire, were 
almost criminally careless. I am sorry to say, 
also, that some of them were much fonder of 
strong liquor than they ought to have been, 
and this as^ain rendered them still more heed- 
less, for a drunken man does not and cannot 
answer for liis own acts. 

It was the season of winter, and there was 
a vast deal of work to do and a great quantity 
of wood and other material in the workshops. 
A large house was to be floored, and the floor- 
ing, and doors, and Avoodwork were all ready, 
and Michael’s father had gone to take the 
owner’s orders, and was not to be back until 
early the next day, leaving the care of the 
place to his foreman. Bill Savage, who, although 
a good workman, was fond of pleasure and 
sometimes indulged in drink. It so chanced 
that on that particular evening Savage was 
asked to a party, and such was his hurry to 
leave work and to go to his appointment that 
he hurried the men and boys out of the work- 
shops and locked them up himself without see- 
ing that the fires were completely out and the 
inflammable matters removed from their 


176 


MICHAEL AND HIS DOG. 


neigliborliood. Ignorant of this awful piece 
of neglect, however, all the family went to 
bed at the usual hour, while Ranger slept, as 
he ahvays did, at Michael’s feet. Suddenly, 
in the middle of the night, Michael felt the 
clothes pulled from him, and he was awaked 
by the whining and anxiety of his four-footed 
friend, who, when he sat up in the bed, went 
and scratched at the door, and then came back 
again and began to whine as before. 

In order to see what might be wrong, 
Michael leaped out of bed at once and opened 
the door, and then but too soon he discovered 
what made his sagacious friend so uneasy. 
The whole house was filled with smoke, and 
the young boy saw at once that his own life 
and that of every other inmate was in the 
gi’eatest danger. He hurried down stairs, fol- 
lowed by Ranger, barking furiously, and he 
succeeded in awaking his mother, although it 
was some time before he could do so, so fast 
wa§ she asleep. 

"By the time she was aroused, the danger 
had become still greater, for the entire ground 
floor was on fire, and the .smoke and flame 
came rolling up the stairs so as almost blind 


MICHAEL A^STD HIS DOG. 


177 


and suffocate them. The way of escape by 
the staircase was completely cut off, and they 
rushed to the window and opened it, both to 
breathe the fresh air and to discover whether 
there was any means provided for their escape 
from a sudden and horrible death. By this 
time the neighborhood was alarmed and every 
one was on the alert ; but the difficulty was to 
fix ladders so as to escape the flames. It was 
at this moment, however, that Bill Savage, 
the foreman, rushed through the crowd, and 
declared that as the misfortune was owing to 
his negligence, so was he determined either to 
save the lives of those he had endangered or 
to perish in the attempt. He boldly planted 
a ladder and held it while Mrs. M’Kenna de- 
scended, wrapped in a damp blanket, and 
almost before she reached the ground, Michael 
followed her quickly, with the faithful Ranger 
close at his heels. 

After this Ranger was still more thought 
of than ever, both by Michael himself and by 
every one to whom his faithfulness and sagac- 
ity became known, and Michael often congrat- 
ulated himself for having saved his life, which 
had thus been valuable in so many ways. As 


178 


MICHAEL AND HIS DOG. 


his father often told him, ‘‘good actions al- 
ways reward tliemselves,” for when they are 
done in a jn-oper spirit, God blesses them aiid 
makes them fruitful of benefits to all who 
come under their influence. So it was with 
Michael and his dog ; the poor, despised ani- 
mal had done his best to repay the kindness of 
his preserver, and the little boy had received 
a lesson in charity which he never forgot. 

In the course of his business Michael’s father 
had a tolerably large bill to pay, and on the 
morning on which it was due, as he was not 
able to go to the town where it was to be paid, 
he selected Michael to go and pay it for him. 
Ho knew that his son was steady and punc- 
tual as to time, and therefore it Avas that he 
gave him the packet of money rolled up more 
loosely and carelessly than it ought to have 
been. Be that as it may, Michael Avent his 
Avay, and had hardly proceeded far when, on 
crossing a style, he passed a travelling tinker, 
AA"ho at once addressed him and kept on 
with him, as they Avere going the one Avay. 
When they Avere passing a lonely part of the 
road the tinker, all at once laying aside his 
friendly familiarity, rudely seized poor Michael 


MICHAEL AND HIS DOG. 


179 


by the collar, and with a dexterous turn of his 
strong hand swung him to the ground, and 
drawing a knife from his budget, threatened 
him with instant death if he cried out or made 
a noise. Then he began to feel in Michael’s 
pockets, and great was his joy when he dis- 
covered the heap of bank notes, which he 
instantly put away in the breast of his coat, 
notwithstanding Michael’s entreaties and ex- 
j^lanations, at ail of which the hardened and 
evil-minded tinker only laughed. When he 
had rifled him, however, he allowed him to 
rise, or was about to do so, when he was sud 
denly attacked from behind himself. 

]V[y reader may probably ask where was Ran- 
ger, who had so often been Michael’s protector 
before, but it so happened that Ranger had gone 
to the market with Michael’s mother, and had 
not returned home until some time after his 
young master had set out. But when he 
could not find him in the house, his* anxiety 
became uncontrollable; he snuffed all round 
the house, ran up to Michael’s room, and finally 
yelped at the street door until it was opened 
for him to go out. When he was allowed to 
do so, he ran hither and thither, smelling 


180 


MICHAEL AKD HIS DOG. 


everything as he went along. Finally, with 
the almost unerring instinct of his kind, he 
struck on the path his master had taken, and 
followed it until he arrived in time to succor 
him once more. It was now the tinker’s turn 
to look about him and defend himself, which 
he did, after receiving several severe bites 
from the infuriated dog. In the meantime, 
while the battle between Ranger and the 
tinker continued, Michael had risen to his 
feet, and was entreating the robber to give 
him back his father’s money and that the dog 
would not molest him any longer. But the 
tinker did not mind him, and made several 
fresh attemjDts to injure or cripple the dog. 
Ranger, however, completely foiled him by 
his agility, avoiding every blow that was made 
at him either by hammer or hand. At last, 
when he had jDretty well tired the tinker, he 
made a sudden spring at his throat, and this, 
with the weight of his body, brought the man 
to the ground, where he would have throttled, 
and, probably, strangled him, so great was his 
rage, had not his master’s voice restrained 
him, and had not also three men, a patrol of 
constabulary, arrived on the scene. They 


MICHAEL AND HIS DOG. 


181 


beat off Ranger with some difficulty, and then 
listened to Michael’s story as to the cause 
of the attack. They searched the tinker and 
found the money, which was thus singularly 
preserved by Ranger’s courage and fidelity, 
and they at once arrested the tinker, who was 
afterwards justly punished for his wicked 
attempt. 

We may be quite sure that Ranger was 
more and more thought of after this last act. 
In fact, he became quite a wonder in the 
neighborhood, and when the children, in par- 
ticular, heard his story, and how he had been 
preserved by the good nature of Michael 
McKenna, they resolved to do as he had 
done, and never wantonly to injure or take 
away the life of any of God’s creatures, to 
which He has given breath, and which, insig- 
nificant as they may appear, have still their 
allotted uses on the earth. 

When Michael was still a very young man, 
poor Ranger had become a very aged dog, but 
still his master remembered his former ser- 
vices, and never neglected him, but took care 
of him to the last. Indeed, his care of him 
may be said to have continued after death, for 


182 


mCHAEL AND HIS DOG. 


he had the faithful animal’s skin neatly aressed 
and stuffed, and placing it, so prepared, on a 
pedestal, an inscription was painted in gold 
letters beneath the figure, of — 


3£tanger, 



SEMPER FIDELIS (ALWAYS FAITHFUL). 






B ed MTTLLIKS and Paul Tracy were 
neighbor’s children and great comrades, 
although they were altogether different in 
character and mind. Ned was hasty and pas- 
sionate, while Paul was patient and thought- 
ful. Ned never hesitated to do whatever he 
v/ished or thought would make him happy, no 
matter who might suffer by his acts ; but Paul 
always considered well what he was about, 
and always guided himself by the golden rule 
of doing to others what you wish they should 
do to you. Ned was fond of bird-nesting and 
rabbitrcatching, and fishing idly in the river, 
and often mitched from school in order to 
gratify his tastes, while Paul remained at 
home reading or working in his father^ gar- 
den, or attending diligently at school. Paul, 
who loved Ned affectionately, often gave him 

183 


184 


THE TWO FRIENDS. 


good fidvice, and was only laughed at for his 
pains. Ned was well known to all the idle 
boys of the neighborhood, and Avas looked 
upon as their leader ; and as they regarded 
Paul with an evil eye, they did their best to 
create dissension betAveen the tAvo friends. 

This the good-natured and right-minded 
Paul did not take any heed of ; he bore with 
Ned’s taunts and ill-temper, although, at last, 
when Ned, on one occasion, threatened to 
strike him, Paul advised him to think well of 
Avhat he was about to do, as he was not accus- 
tomed to be chastised by any one, and Avould 
not submit to it from one whose only cause of 
enmity Avitb him was that he had given good 
advice. Ned did not persist, but from that 
time out the two friends were friends no 
more. 

Indeed, it Avas hardly possible for a boy like 
Paul to countenance one so wild and Avilful as 
Ned, and Avho eA^ery day grew worse and worse. 
He was now seldom to be seen at school at 
all; and often of a Sunday, Avhen other boys 
of his age Avere attending catechism, he Avas 
away on some idle excursion Avith companions 
as idle as himself, At length he and three mpre 


THE TWO FRIENDS. 


185 


of liis companions were detected while rob- 
bing a gentleman’s garden in the neighbor- 
hood, and they would have been sent to 2:)riso^i 
had not Paul’s father, who was under-steward 
to Mr. Morrisson, the gentleman who had been 
plundered, interceded for them, and for this 
time they were suffered to escape. 

Paul himself, after this, sofright out Ned, 
while he was downcast and in trouble, and 
entreated of him to give up his evil compan- 
ions and courses and let them be once more 
friends. For a time Ned took his advice, and 
put himself under the guidance of liis true 
friend. But evil habits are of all things the 
most difficult to get rid of, and gradually Ned 
became again careless and inattentive to his 
lessons, and escaped from the company of 
Paul whenever he could. 

His principal companion about this time 
was a boy older than hitnself, named George 
Gregg, whose father had lately come to the 
neighborhood, and who was already remarka- 
ble for his idle and even vicious habits. The 
father of George was a sort of tinker and 
mender of locks, and the wonder was how he 
managed to maintain his wife and family, as 


186 THE TWO FEIENDS. 

he was seldom sober, and only worked when 
he could not help it. George, his son, some- 
times vvent with him to the houses where he 
was working in order to assist him in his 
trade, and the wretched man, not content with 
breaking the laws of God himself, gave his 
son i^art of the liquor he loved ; and often- 
times at evening both father and son were 
seen staggering home together. 

Repeatedly did Paul Tracy point out this 
to Ned Mullins, but in vain. George Gregg 
had always money at command and did not 
care what he did with his time ; and as he 
professed to be very much attached to Ned, 
and treated him to cakes and even to beer and 
whiskey, Ned had not the fortitude to resist 
temptation, but gradually withdrew himself 
again from Paul’s society, and was now always 
to be found in Gregg’s cottage or wandering 
about with George. 

In the meantime Paul continued to do his 
duty and to assist his father in every way he 
could ; he accompanied his father to his work 
occasionally, assisted him in keeping his ac- 
counts, and at last was entrusted with the 
payment of the laboring men on Saturdays. 


THE TWO FRIENDS. 


187 


Now, in order to do this, Paul was generally 
obliged to go into a town, distant about four 
miles, to get a banker’s check changed at a 
branch bank ; but as his father had great trust 
in his prudence, he never felt uneasy about 
him, even when he sometimes happened to be 
detained later than usual. 

On one occasion, however, he became seri- 
ously uneasy when evening came and still 
Paul was absent. The anxious father set off 
at once for the town, and there learned that 
the boy had been to the bank and got the 
money, and had then taken the road home, 
declining the invitation of a friend of his 
father’s to stay and take an early dinner at 
his house. 

This increased the anxiety of the poor man ; 
and having made his case known, he was im- 
mediately surrounded by friends, and a search 
was made for Paul. The search continued 
long, without any good result, although all 
the laborers on Mr. Morrisson’s estate assisted 
at it ; at length, however, traces were found, 
and a beggar woman said that she had seen 
Paul and Ned Mullins talking together by the 
side of the road. Ned at first denied this ; 


188 


THE TWO FEIENDS. 


but when the beggar-worn an confronted him, 
he acknowledged that he had forgotten tlie 
circumstance, as he had only just stopped for 
a moment to ask Paul liow he was. At a par- 
ticular part of the road, near to where the 
woman said she saw the boys, there were 
marks of a scuffle; and on looking keenly 
about, a police constable who accompanied the 
party thought that the grass of a meadow in- 
side the boundary hedge of the road showed 
marks as if some heavy body had been dragged 
along it. 

Every one engaged in the search grew" still 
more anxious, and spread themselves in every 
direction ; fortunately the moon w"as at its 
full, and this greatly assisted them. At last, 
about nine o’clock, a small terrier dog, wdiich 
accompanied one party of searchers, stopped 
short at a sort of copse wfflich stood on the 
fringe of a thick wood, and began first to 
smell anxiously about and then to yelp and 
bark violently. The men on this stopped 
short, and when they heard a faint groan or 
moan from the centre of the bushes they at 
once dashed into the midst of them, and 
there, sure enough, they found poor Paul, gov- 


THE TWO FEIENDS. 


189 . 


ered with blood and unable to do anything 
more than give indications of life by a moan 
or a sigh of pain. 

In a moment the word w^as given that he 
was found, and a board or door produced, on 
w'hich he was placed and brought home to his 
afflicted parents. A doctor was sent for, and 
so violent were his injuries that for some days 
he was either insensible or raving, so that he 
could give no account of what or by whom the 
outrage had been done. At length, however, 
by great care and skill he was so far recovered 
as to be able to be questioned, and then he 
told how it had occurred. He said that he 
had met Ned Mullins on the road, who asked 
him where he had been ; and that shortly 
after they parted he had been overtaken by 
two men at the loneliest part of the road, and 
had hardly noticed them when he was knocked 
down by a violent blow of a stick, given with 
a man’s utmost strength. 

He remembered that he had been dragged 
through the hedge into a field, he thought ; 
but after this he remembered no more, nor 
could he undertake to swear to the men who 
had maltreated him, although the man who 


190 


THE TWO FEIENDS. 


was last, and who wore a slouched hat, was 
like Gregg tiie tinker, father to George. It 
was evident that the intention of the villains 
was to commit a robbery, for the money which 
Paul had received was gone, and it was equally 
evident that they must have known that he 
had it in his possession, for otherwise so vio- 
lent an attack would never have been made 
on such a mere boy. 

Horrible suspicions Avere thus raised, not 
only against Gregg the tinker, but also against 
Ned Mullins, the chosen comrade of his son. 
They were questioned and cross-questioned, 
but the evidence against them was insuffi- 
cient, and therefore they escaped punishment, 
although such was the outcry against them 
that the tinker and his son quitted the neigh- 
borhood, and, after a time, Ned Mullins, now 
about twelve years old, was sent to a distant 
town by his father, and placed as an appren- 
tice in the sho]) of a relative who was in the 
grocery trade. Here, however, the unfortu- 
nate boy did not long remain ; after' about a 
year he ran away and went to sea, and from 
that time, for several years, his friends and 
family completely lost sight of him. 


THE TWO FRIEI^^DS. 


191 


The fate and fortunes of Paul Tracy were 
very different indeed. When he recovered 
from his wounds he found many friends anx- 
ious and willing to serve and assist him. He 
had been too gentle, too kind, and too dutiful 
not to create sympathy for himself ; and so 
deeply had religion implanted itself in his 
heart, particularly during his long illness, that 
as he grew in years his parents and friends 
were not surprised to hear that his greatest 
ambition was to become a minister of God. 
It was a delightful hearing to his relatives, 
and liis excellent father spared no pains or 
expense to give him an education which would 
fit him for an entrance to the College of May- 
nooth, from whence so many great and good 
men have issued for the glory and i^reser ra- 
tion of the Catholic faith. 

In process of time he was admitted there, 
at the special recommendation of his bishop, 
and during his i)robation he was equally re- 
markable for his wonderful religious zeal, and 
for his anxiety to increase the poAvers of his 
mind by the studies laid doAvn for him. Fi- 
nally he was priested, and received the sacred 
commission to go forth and teach and preach ; 


192 


THE TWO FRIENDS. 


and great indeed was his comfort when he re- 
ceived his first mission in the very parish in 
which he was born, and where he was best 
known. Here for some few years he remained 
honored and beloved, doing all that can be 
done by unaffected piety and the most hu- 
mane and anxious zeal. 

Late one night he received a summons to 
the bedside of a man who was said to be in a 
dying state, and who had been thrown, in a 
state of drunkenness, from the top of the mail 
coach on which he was travelling. When 
Father Paul — for so he was now affection- 
ately called — arrived at the miserable public- 
house or sheheeji where the sufferer lay, he 
witnessed a sight which pained him to the 
heart. There, bruised and maimed, lay the 
friend of his boyhood, Ned Mullins, changed 
indeed, but soon recognized by his old com- 
rade, who at once sat down beside him, and 
with that holy and humane zeal which made 
part of his character, endeavored to console 
and comfort the tortures of mind and body 
which racked the wounded man. 

At first, the feeling that the minister of 
God beside him was the man he had once so 


THE TWO FRIEXDS. 


193 


seriously injured awed and terrified the hard 
heart of Mullins ; but gradually the soothing 
influence of the good priest’s manner reas- 
sured him; he found that he had nothing to 
fear, and before they parted the wretched 
man had given to his old friend a full account 
of all that he had done and suffered during the 
years since they parted — years to him of 
wildness and dissipation, but not of peace, and 
which at this early jDeriod of his life had left 
him without means, without home, friends, 
hope, or happiness. Bitterly, most bitterly, 
did he now bewail his early neglect of the wise 
and good Paul’s advice ; and the details which 
he gave him showed how utterly hoj)eless it is 
for a human being to expect to escape the 
penalties of sin, however long an indulgent 
and merciful God may bear with them, and 
postpone the punishment of his misdeeds. 

Ned admitted to his friend that it was he 
who, at the instance of George Gregg’s father, 
had waylaid Paul on the day he w^as robbed, 
although he did not think that such brutal 
violence would have been used against 
him. He had i3artaken of the profits of the 
robbery, but only in a trifling degree, and 


194 THE TWO FRIENDS. 

Iiad felt such remorse and fear that he had 
striven to sej^arate himself from tlie Greggs, 
but in vain. They liad never lost siglit of 
him ; and even when he was happily appren- 
ticed to his relative, again George Gregg had 
sought him out, and threatened to denounce 
him as the person who waylaid Paul unless he 
stole money from his master’s till and gave it 
to his tempter. 

He did so, again and again, until at last he 
w^as found out; then it was that he had ran 
away, to escape shame and punishment, and 
as he entered the navy as a cabin boy in a 
small trading vessel, the hardships which he 
suffered for years Avere of the most terrible 
kind. He was beaten, scolded, and neglected 
in every Avay, and often he had wished him- 
self dead, so great Avere his soitoavs and so in- 
cessant his toil. Pie had been shipwrecked 
twice, and although he had at last become an 
able seaman, and received the Avages of one, 
still his early evil habits prevented him from, 
making a good use of his money, and he only 
earned money to spend it in folly and in drink. 
In one ship in Avhich he served, a number of 
convicts were placed, and amongst them Avere 


THE TWO FRIENDS. 


195 


the two Greggs, father and son, transported 
for life for their many crimes. 

Even this, liowever, only, sobered the un- 
fortunate Xed for a time ; once again on sliore 
tiie same deliberate' course of wickedness had 
been pursued ; and even when disease set in 
on him he drank to drown care, although he 
was told that death must be the consequence 
of his doing so. Completely broken down in 
health, and utterly without money or friends, 
he at last resolved to make a final struggle to 
reach his native place, although his father and 
motlier were dead, and he hardly knew if any 
of his other relatives remained alive. But 
even in tliis extremity his besetting sin con- 
quered him ; he drank freely during the jour- 
ney, and was so overcome with liquor that he 
fell from the coach at the entrance to his na- 
tive village, and had been carried helpless 
and wounded into the miserable place in wliich 
Father Paul Tracy had discovered him. 

But it was his great good fortune to have 
fallen into the hands of a kind and benevolent 
as well as a holy and exemplary man. Far 
from remembering the injuries which had been 
done to him, the good priest saw only before 


196 


THE TWO FRIEISDS. 


Iiim a wretched sinner whose days were prob- 
ably numbered, and whose soul might be saved 
by his own admonitions and prayers. Ned’s 
own relations, some of whom were comfortably 
off, refused to recognize one who had dis- 
graced them, until they were brought to a 
better spirit by the admonitions of one whom 
every one respected, and who, in his own per- 
son, set them the example of forgiveness, char- 
ity, and brotherly love. For Father Paul did 
not ask any of them to support the ailing and 
now penitent man ; out of his own small means 
he hired for him a more comfortable lodging, 
and provided, him with such food and medi- 
cines as were necessary for his use ; but, more 
than that, he visited him daily, and by thus 
setting others the example, he induced them 
to regard Ned as worthy of pity, and to coun- 
tenance him more than they would otherwise 
liave done. 

Singular to say, the disease with which he 
was afflicted took a better turn, under the 
influence of judicious treatment and friendly 
care. When the possibility of his life being 
saved was told him, he became most anxious 
for its preservation himself ; “ not,” as he 


THE TWO FRIENDS. 


197 


said, ‘‘ because lie valued the mere liberty to 
breathe a little longer in the world, but be- 
cause he wished to evince his gratitude both 
to God and man by reforming his life and 
earning that salvation, which he had so often 
endangered by his sins, by a course of peni- 
tence and prayer.” 

And God willed that this longer time should 
be his. When he recovered, which he did 
slowly, his constant friend, Fatlier Paul 
Tracy, recommended him to an employer, and 
found for him work suitable to his strength, 
lie became a porter and messenger in the 
warehouse of a merchant, and for many happy 
and peaceful years retained his situation, and 
was much valued for his fidelity, sobriety, and 
zeal. He was a signal instance of God’s abun- 
dant mercy, who wills not that a sinner should 
perish, but rather that he be converted and 
live ; and in tlie good and exemj^lary friend of 
his childhood he had found the good angel, 
part of whose mission it was to recall him to a 
recollection of his errors, and open up to him 
the prospect of everlasting peace and joy. 



little l^bbentmtro 

A STORY FOUNDED ON FACT. 


l^^jHO.RTLY after the sad years of the last 
famine, an Irish farmer, named Andrew 
Dormer, was obliged to give up his holding, 
and, having gathered together the remains of 
his property, he turned his attention to 
another land, in which he might hope to es- 
cape the evils ' which threatened him in his 
own. Australia was the land he determined 
to seek, and having made his arrangements, 
he, his wife, and his son and daughter set out, 
and after long delays and many hardships 
arrived safely at Melbourne. 

By the time he arrived there the gold dis- 
coveries had been made, and the general rush 
to “ the diggings ” had commenced. Amongst 

19S 


THE LITTLE ADVENTURER. 


199 


others, Andrew Dormer resolved to try his 
fortune, and accordingly he joined a party of 
five persons who were about to start for the 
gold regions, all as adventurous as himself. 
Before he set off, however, he made the best 
arrangements he could for his family, trusting 
that after a very few weeks he would be able 
to return to them or send them money to 
bring them to him. 

With these arrangements his wife and 
daughter were content, but not so his son 
Andy, who, although not quite ten years old 
was a boy of a hardy, adventurous disposition, 
and greatly devoted to his father. He had 
been much indulged, and now, in the face of 
all the dangers and toils which were before 
him, he pleaded so hard to be allowed to ac- 
company the party to the diggings that at last 
his fond father found it impossible to resist 
him. 

In point of fact, Andy declared, with the 
self-will of a spoiled child, that he would not 
be left at home, and that if he were he would 
find means to follow them. His father, who 
could deny him nothing, at last yielded, and 
as he thought that amongst so many men one 


200 


THE LITTLE ADVEJ^TURER. 


little boy could be well taken care of, he was 
perhaps rather pleased than otherwise to have 
his darling with him. 

At last, all their ^^reparations were made 
and away they went.. After a weary journey 
and many disappointments the j^arty at last 
came to a small stream, and in the bed of tliis 
they found gold dust in tolerable quantity. 
Here young Andy’s hardihood and strength 
were of great use. Although somewhat 
spoiled by indulgence, his heart was naturally 
good, and as his mother had been most care- 
ful in his religious training, he felt that it was 
his duty to assist his father in the exertions he 
was now making for the support of all. 

His father, who was of a peculiarly soft and 
trusting disposition, had entered upon his pres- 
ent speculation without closely investigating 
the characters of the men with whom he was 
associated, some of whom were, like himself, 
peaceable, sober, and industrious, but one or 
two of them proved to be quite the reverse. 
An elderly man, named M’Crae, and a young 
one of about twenty years old, called Gresh- 
am, were those whose want of industry and 
general good conduct proved a source of an- 
noyance and even of loss to the rest. 


THE LITTLE ADVENTURER. 


201 


Thus, it often happened that these two 
would wander off together for whole days, and 
then come back, often in liquor, and insist on 
partaking of the gains which had been earned 
by digging and gold- washing while they were 
away ; and more than once or twice it hap- 
pened that quantities of the gold-dust which 
had been put by in the general store had sud- 
denly and strangely disappeared without any 
one having heard a noise or seen the robber, 
who had taken it. 

During the absence of the two idle men, the 
subject of their losses had been spoken of by 
the others, and Andy had listened to their re- 
marks with great attention. He had more 
than once seen small nuggets of gold with 
young Gresham, who had laughed when he 
noticed them at first, and then threatened him 
with a beating if he ever spoke about them. 
Now, however, when the loss became serious 
to his father and his hard-working friends, he 
privately mentioned it, and, as a result of their 
further consultation, he was asked to watch 
the movements of the suspected men, and 
from time to time to communicate the result. 

When M’Crae and Gresham returned from 


202 


THE LITTLE ADVENTUREE. 


their “ spree.” as they called it, Andy began 
his watch, and he observed that although they 
became more diligent and industrious to all 
apjDearances, as if to make ujd for their idle- 
ness, still that it was only to save aiDj^earances 
and create more confidence in their partners, 
«ince, when they were alone, they talked and 
idled, and made use of such expressions as 
made the clever boy more watchful and cau- 
tious than before. Amongst other things he 
remarked that, after their day’s work was - 
over and their supper eaten, they generally 
left the tent and wandered away for a walk, as 
they said, although they often did not return 
until late, and then they appeared to have got 
more drink than was good for them, although 
it puzzled Andy to think how they had come 
by it. 

He communicated his suspicions to his 
father, who did not pay much attention to 
them, but as Andy was still uneasy, he deter- 
mined to satisfy his doubts by watching where 
the men went. The boy was proud of the gen- 
eral confidence reposed in him by his friends, 
and being by nature bold, confident, and some- 
what curious, he was all the more anxious to 


THE LITTLE ADVENTURER. 


203 


discover if anything wrong was going forward 
and in what direction it lay. 

He watched his opportunity, therefore, and 
on a 2)^^i'ticular evening, when M’Crae and 
Gresham strolled out at dusk, he cautiously 
followed them, and, by keejDing the outline of 
their persons in view, he was able to see where 
they went. When they had lost sight of the 
tent they quickened their pace, and for. some 
time walked so fast that it required all Andy’s 
agility to keep them in view. Suddenly, how- 
ever, he lost sight of them, as they had disap- 
peared behind a hedge of large rock, from 
which, as Andy thought, came the glare of a 
strong fire or light. This frightened him a 
little at first, as he knew not what evil compan- 
ions they might have in that lonely place ; 
but, liaving offered up a prayer to God and 
the Blessed Mother for protection, he gallantly 
determined to creep cautiously forward and 
to see all that was to be seen. The ground 
was very uneven, and as there were both rocks 
and bushes he was able to go on. 

It was a bold undertaking for so young a 
boy, but Andy, as I have said before, had 
courage and good sense beyond his years, and 


204 


THE LITTLE ADVENTURER. 


he now felt that probably the safety and pres- 
ervation of his father and his friends de- 
pended on himself. This nerved and invigor- 
ated him, and, influenced by the strong sense 
of duty, he never stopped or faltered in the 
least. Creeping still cautiously on he came to 
the top of a ledge of rocks, from whence he 
could see all that was passing below. 

The sight he saw there horrified him. 
Around a large fire were seated several fig- 
ures, some of whom were natives or bushmen, 
and some white men, amongst whom M’Crae 
and Gresham were most prominent. They 
were all eating meat, which had evidently 
been cooked at the fire, and occasionally mugs 
or porringers of liquor were handed round and 
drank of by all. It was now evident to Andy 
that some mischief must be brewing, and, as 
he ventured so far, he thought that he would 
venture still a little further, and try and dis- 
cover what their intentions were. By shifting 
his position he was able to move still nearer to 
the grou]^ ; and as they thought themselves 
perfectly safe and out of the reach of hearing 
by any one, they discussed their plans and pro- 
jects openly and in the most undisguised way. 


THE LITTLE ADVENTURER. 


205 


They were, in fact neither more nor less 
than a party of bushrangers, who lived by 
plunder and outrage on the peaceable settlers, 
and at this very moment they were concoct- 
ing the robbery and murder of the party to 
whom M’Crae and Gresham belonged. Andy 
heard them discuss the whole matter over their 
liquor in the most heartless and business-like 
way. They had waited so long because every 
day the gold had increased, and it was not 
until the suspicions of Andrew’s father and 
party had been aroused and manifested them- 
selves that these bad men had resolved to end 
the matter at once. That very night their 
horrible project was to be put into execution, 
and they were even now waiting for the hour, 
and exciting themselves by drink to steal upon 
their victims and deprive them at once both 
of gold and life. So soon as the terrified 
listener had learned the extent of their crimi- 
nal scheme he cautiously drew away, and in a 
few minutes was speeding back to his father’s 
tent in breathless haste and in great dismay. 

Every now and then he paused to listen if 
lie were pursued, and great indeed was liis 
thankfulness when at last he reached it and 


206 


THE LITTLE ADYENTUREE. 


found all safe within. The outer room or 
compartment of the tent was always used as 
a kitchen and common room, and the inner 
one as the general sleeping aj^artment. Wlien 
Andy entered the latter he found his father 
awake and beginning to be seriously uneasy 
at his having stayed out so late, but when he 
told him where he had been, and on what busi- 
ness, his anger was changed to amazement 
and horror, and he instantly awakened the 
other inmates of the tent, and after telling 
them the terrible tidings which Andy had just 
communicated to himself, he and they anx- 
iously consulted as to what was best to be 
done. There were two courses which might 
be pursued ; the one was to remain where they 
were and oppose their enemies by the strong 
hand ; and the other was to divide the gold 
which they had already gathered, and, leaving 
the tent standing where it was, to quit the 
dangerous neighborhood at once and forever. 

As they were all j^eaceable and honest men, 
they shrunk from the bloody scenes which 
must take place should tlie villainous bush- 
rangers attack them ; besides, these latter 
were more numerous, and cruel and desperate 


THE LITTLE ADVENTURER. 


207 


as they were, no mercy was to be expected 
from them ; on the other hand, the -place they 
had chosen for their gold-digging was now 
pretty well worked out, and the value of the 
gold-dust which they had in tlieir store would 
be amply sufficient to reward them for their 
toil. As no one could tell how soon their ene- 
mies might be upon them, and as every min- 
ute was., of consequence, they one and all set 
about their preparations. The gold-dust and 
nuggets were divided, and part given to each ; 
their rifles were already loaded ; some provis- 
ions were portioned out to each ; and in 
somewhat less tlian half-an-hour after Andy’s 
fortunate return tlie whole party of gold-dig- 
gers issued from the tent and took leave of it 
forever without regret. 

It was now about midnight, but the sky was 
clear enough to let them see a good deal in 
advance. Fortunate was it for them that the 
information given them by Andy made them 
particularly cautious, for they had not ad- 
vanced more than a few hundred yards on 
their way when the leading man of their party, 
who acted as a scout, fell back to say that he 
had discovered a number of men, amounting 


208 


THE LITTLE ADVENTURER. 


to nine or ten, coming on. Indeed, so quickly 
did they come that tlie party of diggers had 
barely time to disperse and to conceal them- 
selves when the other party brushed past them 
and rushed hastily on. Some of them stag- 
gered from drink as they went, and from their 
careless demeanor it seemed as if they were 
too sure of their strength and numbers to 
affect any concealment. As they went rapidly 
on it was evident that they would soon dis- 
cover the tent to be deserted and the gold 
gone; a pursuit from them, therefore, was 
certain, and it was of the utmost moment to 
get as far away from them as possible. 

A momentary consultation was now held, 
when it was agreed to push on during the 
night, and if the party should be followed and 
attacked to defend themselves to the last ex- 
tremity. They resumed their flight, there- 
fore, taking a course not in a direct line to the 
settlements, but one more circuitous, and one 
and all jDraised the strength, courage, and per- 
severance of Andy, who travelled on as 
stoutly as any of them. His father and oth- 
ers, now and then, proffered to carry him on 
their backs, but this the little fellow would 


THE LITTLE ADVENTURER. 


209 


not hear of. At last, however, a serious mis- 
fortune threatened them. In attempting to 
lea23 a gully Andy’s father slipped, and so 
seriously sprained his foot as to render walk- 
ing further almost impossible. This was a 
dangerous accident, when every moment was 
of the utmost consequence, but there was no 
help for it ; and after another long and sad 
consultation it was finally resolved that the 
poor sufferer should be deposited in some safe 
place of concealment, with whatever food 
could be spared him, and that Andy should be 
left behind to attend to him, whilst the rest 
should continue their journey, and send back 
a sufficient guard as soon as they reached any 
town or inhabited place where assistance could 
be purchased. 

It was a sad alternative ; but it was the only 
chance of safety for all, since no one could tell 
how soon their enemies would come u}) with 
them, and then, not one alone, but all, might 
perish. All that men could do they did for 
their suffering friend ; they spread themselves 
abroad and looked about for a j)lace of safety 
where he might remain. At last, about half- 
a-mile further they found a sort of cave, a good 


210 


THE LITTLE ADVENTURER. 


deal shaded with brusliwood, and which was 
of sufficient extent to permit of perfect ease. 
Hitlier poor Dormer was supported, or rather 
carried, for by this time his leg had become 
swollen and painful, and with the greatest 
regret his companions left him to the care of 
his boy. 

Every one who reads this must pity both 
father and son, thus left alone in a wild and 
desert place ; but, fortunately for both, they 
had a trust which comes not of or belongs not 
to earth ; and their first act Avas to offer them- 
selves up to their Heavenly Father, and to 
place their hopes of safety in His Almiglity 
hands. This comforted tliem wonderfully, and 
enabled them to look with steadiness and res- 
olution at the dangerous situation in wliieli 
they Avere placed. At tlie fartlier end of the 
cave some dry Avood had been left by some 
former chance inhabitant, and it Avas behind 
this that Andy stretched hb father as soon as 
tlie-moniing liglit enabled him to do so; 
after day had broken lie A'entured cautiously 
abroad, and greatly to his satisfaction found 
a clear rill of Avater streaming from the out- 
side of the A^cry rock that overhung their hid- 


THE LITTLE ADYENTUEER. 


211 


ing-place. Tlieir comrades had left them a 
couple of tin porringers, and with these the 
boy procured water for drinking and for bath- 
ing the swollen limb. 

Hours passed on and still they were alone ; 
but towards evening, as Andy was taking 
water from the stream, he saw at a distance a 
human form, and then another, coming in the 
direction of the cave. Bending low, he crept 
back on his hands and feet and re-entered the 
cave, settling the bushes at the entrance as 
he went. He told his father what he had 
seen, and between them they moved further 
in behind the brush w^ood and lay closely con- 
cealed. 

It Avas most fortunate for them that these 
precautions w^ere taken, for hardly had they 
lay down behind the bushes when two men 
crept into the cave, and both Andy and his 
father almost gave themselves up for lost 
when they heard the voices of M’Crae and 
Gresham. They even approached the bushes, 
and Gresham kicked the outer ones about. 
M’Crae, however, desired him to come away, 
as it was impossible any one w'ould be fool 
enough to hide themselves in such a hole as 


212 


THE LITTLE ADVBNTUEER. 


that. Gresham insisted that there were marks 
outside tlie cave that somebody had been 
there, and that, therefore, ho was right in 
searcliing ; but he acknowledged that it' might 
have been visited on a former day, and that 
now, at all events, it was very evident there 
was no person there. They then went off, 
although not before Gresham had again pulled 
away some of the wood, fortunately without 
going deep enough to uncover the trembling 
prisoners beneath. Great was the joy and 
thankfulness of Andy and his father at their 
providential escape ; and after waiting for an 
hour, the former, after a fervent prayer, ven- 
tured to approach the mouth of the cave, and, 
even still more cautiously than before, to look 
out. 

The pursuers had departed, and all was 
silent ; he therefore went back with the glad 
tidings to his father ; and now they partook 
of some food with a greater relish, and began 
to hope that, after a time, their friends would 
seek them out and deliver them. The perfect 
rest had done the swollen limb a great deal of 
service ; and by the next morning Dormer was 
able to stand and walk a little without much 


THE LITTLE ADVENTURER. 


213 


pain. Still they neglected no precautions, and 
kept as quiet as before. Thus passed another 
day, which, for tlie most part, they occupied 
ill prayer, as both had brought away their 
prayer-books, and never had failed to resort to 
them. 

After another day or two the wounded man 
thought he would be quite able to travel, and 
if his friends failed him in the meantime he 
was resolved to try. It was long after dark had 
fallen when they dropped asleep, and some 
hours must have jiassed when Andy was awak- 
ened by hearing a noise at the mouth of the 
cave, and then on perceiving the glare of a 
torch held by a man who had entered and now 
stood upright. He was reassured, however, 
when he heard his father’s name and his oavii 
shouted out ; and still more when he iierceived 
that the new-comers were their old friends 
returned, according to j^romise, in search of 
them. 

All was now explained ; their friends had 
met with a party of the mounted patrol, who 
willingly agreed to accompany them when 
their story was told, and accordingly they were 
now there. A horse had been hired for Dor- 


214 


THE LITTLE ADVENTITEER. 


mer ; and at the dawn of tlie day they left 
their jilace of refuge, and after a safe journey 
arrived at Melbourne greatly to the delight of 
Mrs. Dormer and her daughter, who had not 
heard of them for some time. M’Crae and 
Gresham were supposed to have joined a gang 
of bushrangers, or, at all events, they never 
appeared to trouble them, while Andy Dormer 
became a little hero amongst his friends, and 
ultimately joined his father in a store with the 
profits of their gold digging, and is now a 
23rosperous and happy man. 

Thus, my young readers may see that even 
the smallest child may be made, under Provi- 
dence, the means of doing a great deal of 
good ; and therefore, that even in the outset 
of life children ought to be i^atient, obedient, 
and observant, as, with these virtues and the 
love of God to guide them, there can be no 
doubt that their course must be profitable to 
others and bring a great reward to them- 
selves. 


A TALE OF THE LEBANON. 


EAR reader, did you ever hear of a 
country called the Lebanon ? You may 
have seen mention of it in your Bibles, and 
you have heard of its cedars, and its glorious 
range of mountains; but unless you had been 
there you could not imagine any tiling so beau- 
tiful. It is a tract of country lying nearly 
parallel to the Syrian coast, and God has cer-. 
tainly bestowed upon it all that is richest and 
most luxurious in nature and produce, so that 
it may indeed be called a land “ flowing with 
milk and honey.” It is in this glorious coun- 
try that my tale is laid. I know it well, and 
I hope, before I die, to go back to it ; so what 
I am going to tell you is strictly true, not only 
as to the people, but the j)lace. 

It was a, beautiful June morning in 186 Q, 

' 215 




216 


THE martyr’s children. 


when two children were seen wending their 
way from a little flat-roofed house, which had 
been built close to a gurgling stream, to a 
school standing on the edge of the hill, kept 
by two gentle-looking Sisters of Charity. 
Their talk was about silk-worms, for you must 
know that in that country silk is the great 
trade, and every cottage window is full of 
trays holding cocoons; that is, bright little 
yellow oval balls which the poor caterpillar 
has made, and then, when it has merged into 
a butterfly (meet emblem of the Resurrec- 
tion), the shell remains, and the chief occupa- 
tion of the children is winding off the fine silk 
which tightly covers the caterpillar’s living 
tomb, and of which all those beautiful stuffs 
are made which you see in the linen-drapers’ 
shops. 

‘‘ I fear I shall never have done my silk in 
time for St. Peter’s Feast,” exclaimed the 
youngest of the two sisters, whose name was 
Lucia. “It’s only ten days now, for this is the 
19th, and if I can’t finish I shall loge my j^ias- 
tre,* and not be able to get anything for our 
good Padre. Oh, I am so sorry ! ” 

* A silver coin equal to about a dollar and a quarter of our 
money» 


THE martyr’s CHILDREIfl'. 


217 


'Never mind,” answered the elder, cheer- 
ily, “ I’ve had good luck with mine, you 
know, so we can share tlie profits. But who 
is calling us?” she exclaimed, suddenly stop- 
ping as a voice w^as heard echoing through the 
rocks the words, “ Lucia ! Mary ! ” 

The little girls looked in the direction of the 
voice, and presently saw their father approach- 
ing with rapid strides down the mountain- 
side. 

‘‘ How is it he has left his work ? What’s 
the matter ? ” exclaimed Mary as he came 
closer, for she saw that his face worked with 
agitation of some sort which he strove in vain 
to conceal. 

“ My darlings,” he exclaimed, “ you must not 
go into the town to-day. The school is closed. 
Come with me.” 

The children followed, awed and frightened, 
for he did not say anything further, but kept 
walking on more and more quickly, not in the 
direction of their home, but in that of Beted- 
din, a beautiful s})Ot about a mile from Deir- 
el-Kahmar, which was then the palace of the 
Christian Emirs or Governors of the Lebanon. 
They -met no one till they came to the pictur- 


218 


THE martyr’s children. 


esque bridge which separates one hamlet from 
the other ; but there they found several people 
talking in little groups, and all seemingly 
equally anxious and unhappy. 

“ What do you think ? What can be done ? ” 
exclaimed one of the women to the father of 
the children, whose name was Alexander Bou- 
tros. 

‘‘ There is no helj) but in God, Marietta,” 
sadly and sternly rej)lied the man. “ We are 
betrayed on every side, and it is too late to get 
the French up from Beyrout. We can but 
try and jDut our children in some place of 
safety.” 

So saying, he hurried on more rapidly even 
than before, till they reached the palace gates. 
The confusion and terror had extended even 
to this quiet spot. The gates were thrown 
open, the servants had fled, and tl^e whole 
iflace seemed deserted. Boutros led his chil- 
dren by a covered way to some baths at the 
back of the building, and there for the first 
time paused and spoke. 

“ Mary,” he said gravely, laying his hand on 
the oldest girl’s shoulder, “ you are old enough 
to understand the, terrible perU we are in. 


THE martyk’s childeejt. 219 

Listen to me. The Druses have broken their 
promises, and have risen again throughout the 
Lebanon, and put all the Christians to death 
whom they could possibly find. The Turkish 
Governor has promised to protect us ; but I 
do not believe in him. I think you will be 
safe here for a few days till we see what hap- 
pens. I have brought you some food, and you 
must take care of your little sister.” 

So saying, he embraced his children ten- 
derly, and was striding off, when Mary rushed 
to stop him. 

“ You will not go back ! You will not leave 
us ! ” she exclaimed, sobbing. 

“ I must, my child. What is to become of 
your mother and the rest ? After all it may 
blow over, or the French troops may come. 
Anyhow, we will hope,” he added, more cheer- 
ily ; “ and if God wills it otherwise, Mary, we 
must equally rejoice, you know, at being found 
worthy of being martyrs for Our Lord’s sake.” 

Not daring to trust himself with more 
words, Alexander Boutros tore himself away 
from the kisses of his little girl, and hurried 
back to the village, while Mary sat on the edge 
of the beautiful alabaster fountain and cried 


220 


THE martyr’s children*. 


bitterly. In one short hour all her life seemed 
changed, and the merry child had turned into 
a grave and thoughtful woman. She was only 
twelve years old, but she was “ old for her age,” 
as the saying is. Brought up in a pious home, 
and trained by tlie good Sisters and a holy 
Jesuit Father in all loving and virtuous ways, 
she w^as her mother’s right-hand, and the con- 
soler and adviser of all the younger members of 
the family. It added to her sorrow to think that 
at this very moment she was away from that 
tender mother, unable to help her in this terri- 
ble time of danger. And then she recollected 
her father’s words : ‘‘ Take care of your little 

sister ; ” and so, after a few moments of earnest 
prayer, she got up to look after her. The 
little Lucia had run down to the garden, and 
was as hajDpy as a queen, making a garland of 
bright blue flowers; and Mary, glad to be 
spared any further words upon the sad subject 
of her terror and anxiety, sat by and helped 
her, and told her little stories, till the beat of 
the summer’s sun forced them to take shelter 
within the house, and Lucia was soon fast 
asleep on a sofa in a dressing-room which 
adjoined the baths. 


THE martyr’s CHILDREJSr. 221 

Then Mary had time to reflect on her posi- 
tion, and to see what means there were of con- 
cealment should the Druses be tempted by 
their love of pillage to invade even this 
secluded sjDot. She found a circular staircase 
leading from the dressing-room to a kind of 
terrace, and at the top a recess, before which 
it was easy to hang a curtain or push a bit of 
furniture, behind which she and her sister 
might crouch in case of need. Her blood 
froze when she recollected the tales she had 
heard of Druse cruelty from the neighbors, 
but she tried to put the thought from her, and 
to trust in God. The rest of the day was 
spent by both children in wandering over the 
beautiful rooms of the deserted palace, although 
many a time they would run to the terrace, 
from whence a distant view could be obtained 
of her native village, and take comfort from 
the apparent quiet of everything there. Night 
fell on the desolate children, and Mary found 
it hard work to quiet the little Lucia, whose 
piteous entreaties to “ go home to her mother ” 
she was compelled to stifle, and to conceal her 
own sorrow under a bright and merry exterior, 
till her little sister’s even breathing told her 


222 THE martyr’s children. 

she had sobbed herself to sleep. Then Mary 
threw herself on her knees, and jDrayed as she 
had never done before for the safety of those 
so dear to her ; but after a while the words 
of Father Badow came back to her, and she 
added, “ Yet not my will, but Thine be done, 
O my God ! ” as she sorrowfully rose and lay 
down by her sister’s side. 

The morning dawned of the 20th of June — 
that day which w^as to witness scenes of such 
untold horror in that hitherto quiet hamlet. 
Alarmed at the increasing rumors of an assault 
from the Druses, fifteen hundred of the Chris- 
tians had taken refuge in the Turkish governor’s 
house, who had repeated to them his solemn 
assurances of safety and j)rotectron. But an 
hour or two later the Druses were secretly 
admitted by the Turks themselves into the 
citadel, and then the massacre began. Not 
content with murder, they tortured and muti- 
lated their victims in the mostliorrible manner, 
and then flung them over the wall of the 
courtyard into a field below. Alexander 
Boutros, suspecting treachery, had refused 
to follow his fiiends to the governor’s house, 
but had taken refuge in the presbytery with 


THE MAETYr’s CHILDREIT. 


223 


his wife and his eight remaining children. 
This house adjoined the church, and there the 
little band of martyrs gathered round the 
altar, and prepared themselves for death. 

Solemn indeed had been the previous night, 
when, finding themselves on all sides encircled 
by tlie enemy, and all escape cut off, they had 
calmly faced their fate, and in the Sacraments 
of Penance and the Blessed Eucharist had 
found that strength Avhich One alone could 
give. But now the tumultuous cries of the 
murderers are heard approaching, and the 
Druses and Turks, drunk with the blood of 
tlieir victims at tlie governor’s house, sur- 
round the church and presbytery. The Su- 
perior liad just pronounced the Absolution for 
tlie dying from the altar-steps, when the 
church doors were broken open, and the 
Cliristians instantly seized by the armed 
rufiians whom they Avere calmly expecting. 
‘‘Apostasy or death!” Avas the Mussulman 
cry. They all chose the latter. The priests 
Avere the first Auctims. Kneeling at the foot 
of the altar, Avith their arms extended in the 
form of a cross, each receiA^ed the martyr’s 
palm, the Druses in the meanAvhile ringing 


224 


THE martyr’s children. 


the church bells in derision, and calling out to 
the people to “ come to the Mass of their 
priests.” The heroic Superior was reserved 
for more horrible torture. Stripped naked, 
he was first scalped, “ to renew the tonsure ” 
they said, then with long knives they carved 
the patterns of his sacerdotal vestments on 
his back and chest, and finally beheaded him. 
The remainder of their victims were quickly 
despatched ; and then these monsters, call- 
ing themselves men, set fire to the church, 
and proceeded to plunder everything that came 
in their way. Suddenly a voice was heard : 
“ To the Palace of the Emirs ! To Beteddin ! ” 
And the word fiew from mouth to mouth, and 
the Druses and Turks hurried across the 
bridge, and so on to the doomed mansion. 

And what were the children doing all this 
time ? Although the palace was too distant 
to allow them to hear the cries of the victims, 
yet, when the smoke rose from the well-known 
site wdiere all their holiest recollections w^ere 
centred, Mary felt at once that the dreaded 
hour had come. Presently fugitives were 
seen flying up the mountain-side, hotly pursued 
by some bloodthirsty Mussulman. And then 


TUE martyr’s CIIILDRE2^. 225 

a dark and serried mass appeared on the 
bridge, and presently wound up the steep 
ascent to the palace. Mary’s heart almost 
stopped beating as she gazed. Then, suddenly 
turning to her sister, she exclaimed : — 

“ They are coming — we must hide ! [N’o^? 

listen, Lucia. Your life and mine depend on 
your keeping quite quiet, and never crying or 
speaking a word till they are gone. Will you 
promise me this ? ” 

The little Lucia, awed by her sister’s face 
and manner, promised implicitly, and Mary 
ran with her as fast as possible to the hiding- 
place which she had prepared at the top of 
the staircase before mentioned. In a few 
seconds the palace rang with oaths and curses. 
Everything which could not be carried off 
was destroyed. The beautiful Venetian mo- 
saic with its elaborate patterns, the rare 
marbles and agates which panelled the walls, 
all were battered into small pieces. The lux- 
urious baths shared the same fate. Then, to 
Mary’s inexjDressible terror, she heard one of 
them ascending the staircase. “ Try not to 
breathe,” she whispered to her sister, as they 
crouched behind the piece of furniture which 


220 


THE martyr’s children. 


was their only human protection. Luckily, 
the Druse robber walked on, contenting him- 
self with hacking at the woodwork as he 
^^assed ; and finding nothing to satisfy him on 
che terrace roof, quickly retraced his steps. 
And then began a scene of drunkenness and 
aebauchery which lasted till far into that ter- 
rible night, and not till an alarm was given of 
the coming of the French avengers did the 
last stragglers from that cruel band of plun- 
derers leave the palace and its trembling child- 
prisoners. The moon shone gloriously on that 
scene of ruin and devastation as the little girls 
crept cautiously from their hiding-place, and 
looked around them. Presently they heard a 
low stifled cry as of another child, and Mary 
starting forward suddenly came on a little 
boy, the son of a neighbor, who had been con- 
cealed ill one of the lower courts. He had 
escajDed from the previous day’s massticre, and 
knew only that all his family were missing ; 
but his words confirmed poor Mary’s worst 
fears. The weary day wore on, and the mor- 
row came, and with it help and love ; but 
never again would those poor children be 
folded in their parents’ arms. By degrees, 


THE martyr’s children. 


227 


from the weeping Sister of Charity who had 
been sent from Beyrout to rescue the sur- 
viving little ones, Mary gathered the terrible 
story of the 20th of June, and found herself 
an orplian indeed. She never recovered the 
shock. Taken home by the good Sisters, she 
and Lucia were speedily installed in the beau- 
tiful Beyrout Orphanage, where Mary soon 
became a universal favorite from her gentle- 
ness and tender piety. But her days were 
numbered. Two things only did she ask of 
G^d — that she should receive her first Com- 
munion, and be enrolled among the Children 
of Mary before her death ; and both were 
granted to her. The much-wished-for day 
came, and Mary, lying in her little bed, was 
dressed by the loving Sisters in her white veil 
and wreath. But not more pure are the roses 
round her head or the lilies by her bedside 
ban is that spotless soul sighing but for one 
thing — to receive her Lord before she de- 
parted to see him face to face. Bound her 
neck she wears the blue ribbon and medal of 
Mary — the only mother left to the orphan 
child. And now the bell is heard, and the 
light approaches, while the attendant Sisters 


228 


THE MAETYR S CHILDREN. 


devoutly kneel. A moment more, and she has 
received Him whom she has so loved and 
trusted in here. A few minutes later she was 
with Him in His Kingdom in Heaven. 




f Ije free* 


m HY are you looking so often out of tlie 
window, Dora; and what are you think- 
ing of?” 

“ I am thinking of the rose tree, dear mother, 
and looking at the rose tree, too.” 

“There are many roses in the garden,” said 
Mrs. Maxwell to her little daughter. 

“But,” said Dora, “the rose tree that is 
my own, that grows on a single stem in the 
middle of the closely-cut turf, and has so 
many branches, and is so covered with rose- 
buds, is the prettiest tree we have.” 

Her father had given Dora this tree. 

“But staring at a thing and only saying, 
‘ How pretty, how pretty ! ’ is not very. profit- 
able.” 


229 


230 


THE ROSE TREE. 


“ Oh, no, I suppose not ; but I was thinking, 
mother.” 

Tell me your thoughts.” 

“ All rose trees do not grow in that Avay, on 
one stem, with a great number of short 
branches full of flowers.” 

“It is not the natural growth of the rose,” 
said her mother; “I am glad you have ob- 
served it. The natural growth is j ust what you 
see in the hedges when you look at the pretty 
pink-and-white single roses called dog-roses or 
eglantine.” 

“Yes, and I am afraid to pick them, because 
their thorns are so sharp. Are all roses 
naturally single ? ” 

“ Yes ; they are made double by cultivation. 
This rose in the garden that you are admiring 
is a grafted rose.” 

“ Grafted ! What is grafting ? ” 

“ Look at the rose ; it comes up from the 
ground in one straight strong stem. That 
stem has its roots under the turf.” 

“ Oh, yes ; I know that,” said Dora. 

“ And once that stem was growing wild in 
a hedge.” 

“ I did not know that, dear mother,” said 


THE ROSE TREE. 


231 


Dora. “How is it that such lovely pink 
roses — very sweet, and beautifully double — 
grow on it now ? ” 

“ Because, as I said before, it is a grafted 
tree. Men who get their living by selling 
garden produce in the streets sometimes 
wander away among the woods and hedges, 
and pull u]^ the straight-growing single stems 
of the common dog-rose ; and they sell these 
stems, with plenty of healthy little roots, but 
with no branches, to gardeners, to be grafted 
or budded ; for roses are more frequently 
budded than grafted. Grafting is putting 
a young shoot of a double-rose into a slit 
made in the stem of the dog-rose, and cover- 
ing it up cleverly. The new shoot joins its 
bark, or outer skin, to that of the dog-rose, 
and grows as if it were a natural shoot of the 
stem. Several shoots are put in in this way. 
The root nourishes them, and the stem is 
never allowed to have any shoots of its own. 
Budding is the same kind of thing; only a 
bud — that is, a shoot before it has grown out 
of the tree so far as to look like a branch, 
when it only shows itself ready to shoot — is 
used, and is called a bud.” 


232 


THE ROSE TREE. 


‘^^ot the bud of the flower, but the bud of 
the shoot,” said Dora; “I think I under- 
stand.” 

“Yes,” said her mother; “this bud of the 
shoot is cut out deeply, and j)ut into a slit in 
the dog-rose’s stem. It joins itself to the 
straight stem, and becomes a part of it. It 
is nourished by the root, and shoots, and 
grows, and bears flowers — its own flowers, 
not the dog-rose flowers that the stem would 
have borne had it been allowed to make 
shoots for itself.” 

Little Dora seemed U understand this as 
well as could be expected of a small chils.^ 
who had always lived in the suburbs of a 
great town, and had never seen a real wood, 
where wild roses grow in thick tangles, in her 
life. She had walked among pleasant lanes 
sometimes when her mother had taken a car- 
riage for a country drive. But Dora haa 
never seen flowering orchards, and far-spread- 
ing woods, and sunny meadows, nor sat by 
the sweet banks of rapid rivers, and watched 
where,, in the quiet corners, the flies and 
water-spiders played, and the flsh jumped up 
to catch them. 


THE ROSE TREE. 


233 


I’ernajDS som^ of you, iny dear readers, 
Xaye seen these pleasant sights often enough. 
But there are many young girls besides little 
Dora who know no more of the country than 
their friends tell them as they sit working 
and talking, as Dora did this day about the 
rose tree. 

Dora’s father was the head clerk in a large 
commercial house in London. He went away 
every morning, and never came home till 
evening. Dora was the only child of her 
parents, so it happened that she and her 
mother had many wise and j)leasant talks to- 
gether; and I have chosen to tell you this 
about the rose tree because something inter- 
esting resulted from it. Dora thought much 
of rose trees all that day ; and when night 
came, and she had said her prayers and ex- 
amined her conscience, and was comfortably 
lying in her pretty white bed, she looked on 
the image of Holy Mary, which was placed 
just x>pposite, and thought still of roses. She 
remembered how roses were found by the 
Apostles when they looked in the tomb for 
her body — that body, born without sin, which 
had gone up to her divine Son in heaven ; she 


234 


THE EOSE TKEE. 


remembered, too, how her picture of St. 
Elizabeth showed the saint with her apron 
full of roses ; and then she began to think of 
lier i^atron saint, after whom she was called — 
her dear Saint Dorothea — and before she 
liad got through the story of the saint’s 
beautiful flowers she was sound asleep, 
dreaming of roses, i^^^i’haps, and very likely 
to think of them the first moment she awoke 
when the next morning came. When the 
clock struck seven the next day, a nice, neat 
girl, called Mary Drewe, stood by little Dora’s 
white bed and woke lier. Mary Drewe had 
been taken by Mrs. Maxwell for her servant 
on the recommendation of the nuns who lived 
not far off. She had been one of the best and 
steadiest girls in their school ; and now she 
was getting her living respectably, and learn- 
ing to be a good servant under Mrs. Maxwell’s 
instructions. 

Dora woke up, looking very rosy, and 
giving Mary a smile. 

‘‘ Is it a fine day ? ” 

Yes, Miss Dora,” said Mary. 

Then I shall go to Mass,” said the child ; 
and so Mary began to dress her. But first of 


THE ROSE TREE. 


235 


all Mary and Dora made the sign of the cross, 
and Dora said, ‘‘In the name of the Father, 
and of the Son, and of the Holy Ghost;” 
and Mary said “ Amen ” with her. 

Then Mary said, “ Blessed be the holy and 
undivided Trinity ; ” and then again they said, 
“Amen.” And so this good girl and the 
child Dora began the day together. 

Dora went to Mass with her mother. She 
was still thinking of roses. She had giveji a 
glance at the rose tree in the garden, and 
had observed many of its grafted branches 
hanging low with the weight of flowers and 
leaves, and others standing stiff and upright 
crowning the strong stem that sprung straight 
from the ground, and nourished them all so 
well. 

When Dora walked out of church, after 
Mass, with her mother, she said, “ The rose 
is an emblem of our Blessed Lady, is it not ? ” 

“Yes, dear child.” 

“ And when we say our Rosary — that is 
the prayers we say, and the meditation we 
make with our beads — do we mean anything 
about real roses, mother ? ” 

“ Can you say the prayer at the end of the 
Rosary ? ” 


236 


THE ROSE TREE. 


Which prayer, mother ? ” 

“ The prayer beginning ‘ O glorious Queen 
of all the heavenly citizens.’ ” 

“ O yes,” said Dora ; “ it goes on ‘ accept 
this Rosary which, as a croion of rosesy we 
offer at thy feet.’ I never thought*so much of 
roses before.” 

After a few steps taken in silence Dora be- 
gan again to talk to her mother. 

“I rememlj)er, too,” she said, “that the cur- 
tains on each side of the altar of, our Lady are 
worked all over with roses — stiff-looking 
flowers, with leaves on each side the stems. 
And behind the altar, on the wall, the same 
sort of roses are painted; with a crown over 
every one.” 

“ Can you think of anything more ? ” asked 
her mother. 

“Yes,” said Dora; “in the Litany she is 
called '‘Mystical MosCy because,^ by the name 
and under the figure of a rose she was spoken 
of by the Prophets long before our Blessed 
Lord. And the rose is crowned because she 
i#called Queen many times in the Litany.” 

“And why do we call her Queen?” asked 
Mrs. Maxwell. 


237 


THE EOSE TREE. 

‘‘ Oh, she was victorious^over all tempta- 
tions of the devil when she was on earth, and 
she has long been crowned in heaven by her 
Divine Son Queen of all Saints, Queen of 
Heaven.” 

By this time Dora and her mother had 
reached the gate that led to their garden. A 
poor child with naked feet and tattered 
clothes came forward with a j^retty little 
bunch Oi rosebuds tied together, and holding 
it towards Dora, she said : — 

“ Please buy my roses, miss, fresh moss- 
roses — roses j ust gathered, little lady. Please 
buy them, they are only threepence. We 
are in trouble at home, and I don’t want to 
go far away to-day, for mother is .sick in bed. 

I have sold .three bunches, miss, already. If 
I can sell this one now we shall have bread 
for the day, and I shall go for the j^riest; for 
mother is suddenly worse, and we have no 
friend but him.” 

The girl was crying, and she held out her 
roses. 

“ Mother, may I give her my sixpence ? 
said Dora. 

‘‘I will give her sixpence,” said Mrs. Max ' 


238 


THE ROSE TREE. 


well. ‘‘What is ‘your name, child, and where 
do you live ? ” 

The child said her name was Power, and 
that her father, and mother, and herself, 
with three brothers, had come to a room in a 
street not far off about a month since. She 
said that her father had gone to see for work 
the day after they had come, and that he had 
never returned ; that her mother had been 
so ill when she came that they had carried 
her ujD-stairs to bed, and that she had never 
been strong enough to get up. They had 
been left with half a crown by their father. 
This had been spent in bread ; and when that 
was gone, this child, who was the eldest, had 
kept the others from starvation by going 
errands, and earning a few j)ence, which she 
spent at a gardener’s in rosebuds. 

“I have sold my flowers to kind passers- 
by,” said the child ; “ and they have often 
given me a penny besides paying for the 
roses. And the gardener has also been good 
to me. He has often given me a bunch over 
^vhat I 2:>aid for, and made them prettier by 
adding a sprig of myrtle. I have made 
ninepence a da , , and that has kept my mother 


THE ROSE TREE. 


239 


and my brothers from starving ; and I hope 
every day for my father’s return, and that he 
will be able to pay the rent and give us some 
clothes ; for my brothers have scarcely any- 
thing to wear, and I have only what I stand 
up in.” 

“ Take this sixpence and come into the 
house,” said Mrs. Maxwell. 

So the poor child, whose name was Anna, 
walked up the garden ; and she looked so 
eagerly at the rose tree that Dora could not 
help observing it. 

‘‘ Do you like our rose tree ?” she asked. 

‘‘Oh, miss, if that rose tree was mine, I 
think I could support my mother for another 
month, if father should be away so long, upon 
its flowers. There are hundreds of buds on 
that tree, I think; it is the loveliest tree I 
ever saw.” 

Mrs. Maxwell gave Anna a loaf of bread 
and a jug of warm tea with sugar and milk in 
it ; and she told the child that she would como 
to see her mother about eleven o’clock. 

During breakfast Dora was very thought- 
ful. At last she said to her mother that she 
should like to give all the flowers on that 
tree to Anna Power to sell. 


240 


THE ROSE TREE. 


‘‘ You would never see one of them open. 
She must have the flowers when they are in 
bud.” 

‘‘Yes, mother,” and Dora sighed. 

“ And you intended to have the pleasure of 
giving a great many to the nuns for their 
altar?” 

“Yes, mother; I should like to see them 
there. But if I give them to Anna it will be 
just as good as giving them to the altar.” 

“ Oh, yes,” said Mrs. Maxwell. 

“ Then may Anna have them?” 

“You must think about it a little longer,” 
said her mother. 

Dora was allowed to go with her mother to 
see poor sick Mrs. Power. There, in one 
room, in great misery, this poor woman and 
her children lived. There was only one bed, 
which she lay upon, very ill ; indeed, she 
looked as if she would soon go to God. The 
boys slept on some straw in a corner. Anna 
lay across the foot of her mother’s bed, to be 
ready to assist her in the night if she wanted 
anything. There was nothing in the house 
to eat except the tea and bread just sent by 
Mrs. Maxwell. Anna was gone for the priest. 


THE KOSE TKEE. 


241 


When they came in, a ragged child, holding 
a rug over his poor hare shoulders, was on 
his knees by his mother’s side saying the Our 
Father. The other two boys, who were 
almost babies, were crying in the corner, and 
nestling together in the straw. Mrs. Max- 
well talked to the mother for a few minutes, 
and then they went home again ; for Anna 
had returned, bringing the priest with her. 

Poor Mrs. Power lived a month; and all 
that time, every morning early, Dora cut off 
every bud from the rose free, and Anna took 
them away to sell. Eveij' day Mary and 
Dora said the Litany of our Lady for this 
poor family ; who, in all their misery, had 
never forgotten God, or fallen into wicked- 
ness, or neglected to say their prayers. Every 
day, too, Mrs. Maxwell sent them bread and 
warm tea. At the end of the month, Mrs. 
Maxwell told Dora she could not go to see 
Mrs. Power any more. She was dead. She 
had gone to God thanking Him for sending 
friends to her in her last great trial, and asking 
the priest and the nuns to be kind to her chil- 
dren. 

Mrs. Power was buried in the burial-ground 


242 


THE EOSE TEEE. 


belonmns: to the Catholic church. Dora 

o o 

could see the churchyard from her bedroom 
Avindow, and she and Mary DreAve Avatched 
the funeral as the j^eople passed from the 
church to the grave. Plenty of idle girls and 
boys were standing about and staring; some 
climbing up on the churchyard Avail, and 
others pushing among the good quiet Cath- 
olics Avho AA^ere standing round the coffin, till 
they had to be scolded and roughly put aside. 

“ I think,” said Dora, ‘‘ I should like to say 
some prayers.” 

Mary DreAve had her Garden of the Said in 
her hand, for she had said many prayers that 
day. 

So the tAvo girls knelt doAAm, and said the 
j)rayers for the dead together. 

Then the funeral was over and the people 
gone ; and poor little Anna PoAver, leading a 
little brother on each side of her, Avent last 
from the place, Avith a good kind neighbor, 
who AA^as a AvasherAVoman, and had helped 
this family all through their trouble, Avalking 
near them. 

Dora Avas noAV in the sitting-room again 
with her mother. And Dora looked on the 


THE EOSE TEEE. 


243 


rose tree just as she was looking when you 
first heard of her. 

“ What are you thinking of ? ” said Dora’s 
motlier once more. 

“I am thinking that all my roses are gone ; 
and that yet, next year, they will all come 
back. I shall most likely have more than I 
ever had ; for, where every rosebud was cut, 
little green shoots are springing, and each 
of those shoots will bear a rose, and the tree 
will be more beautiful tlian ever. Then, I 
think also, dear mother, that Anna will have 
her mother again when this life is over, more 
beautiful than we can tell ; and that our 
bodies will rise from the grave, and never die 
any more. 

‘‘Mother,” said Dora, looking up at Mrs. 
Maxwell’s quiet face with a smile, “ mother, 
tell me what you are thinking of now.” 

“ Of love, faith, and good works,” said her 
mother, smiling sweetly on the little girl, who 
left her low seat at these words, and nestled 
herself within her mother’s arm. 

“Your father’s short prayer, which he often 
asks- you to say with him, is, ‘Lord, teach us 
to love Thee I ’ ” 


244 


THE KOSE TREE. 


“ Yes,” said Dora, “ we say it very often.” 

“ And, Dora, what is faith?” 

“ It is to believe without doubting whatever 
God teaches. And I think,” said Dora, “tljat 
the more people love God, who teaches them 
by means of the true Churcli, the easier good 
works must be.” 

“Verytrue^ my child. Will you always 
try to make your acts of faith and love with 
all your heart ? ” 

“ Yes, mother. But why should the rose 
tree make you think of good works ? ” 

“ Our Heavenly Father does so many good 
works for our joy and comfort. He is very 
good to give us the things we use for food and 
clothing, and for all the things that we call 
the necessaries of life.” 

‘‘Yes,” said Dora, “houses, and wood, and 
coal, and iron to make tools of, and glass to 
let in the light, and all such things, we call 
the necessaries of life.” 

“Yes,” her mother answered; “but, Dora, 
rose trees, and lilies, and fruits, and birds that 
sing, and butterflies that please you so much, 
as they sun their wings on the bright flower- 
beds — they are not among the necessaries of 
life.” 


THE ROSE TREE. 


245 


‘‘ Oh, no, no ; they are not necessaries ; but 
I slioiild not like to do without them.” 

Mrs. MaxAvell did not speak, and thought- 
ful little Dora was silent for a moment. Then 
she said : — 

‘‘ Mother, the rose tree reminds you of good 
works, because over and above what we call 
necessaries, God gives us many things to please 
and delight us. So, over and above what we 
must do to save our souls, and prove ourselves 
members of the Catholic church, w^e ought to 
do many things, because we love God, and 
remember all our blessed Lord has done for 
us. So, doing good works is one way of show- 
ing how we love God, and how we believe all 
that he has taught us.” 

‘‘ Who is that coming uj) the garden?” said 
Mrs. Maxwell, kissing her good little- daugh- 
ter. 

“ Oh, my father ! my father ! ” exclaimed 
Dora. 

‘‘ I have succeeded in getting those poor 
brothers of Anna Power into Lord Morden’s 
Orphanage. They can go to-morrow.” 

Dora claj^ped her hands when her father 
said this. 


246 


THE ROSE TREE. 


‘‘ And Anna ? ” she asked, “ what is to be- 
come of Anna V ” 

“ The nuns took Anna into their school. I 
think she will be a good servant one day.” 

About a month after Mrs. Power’s death 
her husband came back. He was very sorry 
to find that she was dead. He had got Avork, 
and Avished for all his. children to come and 
live Avith him ; but Mr. Maxwell persuaded 
him to let them remain Avhere they Avere. He 
Avas glad to do so, Avhen he found how good a 
Catholic education they Avere getting ; and 
every month he sends a j^art of liis Avages to 
assist in supporting them. 

When you see rose trees, in full flower and 
beauty, Avill you think of our Blessed Lady 
sometimes, as Dora did, and say, “Mystical 
Rose, pray for us?” And think of good 
Avorks also, and do such acts of kindness as 
are within your power for the love of God. - 



Cj)e Slarji of a ^air of Joots. 


alms given with discretion is like a 
bill of exchange drawn upon heaven, 
and which is never protested. It is often, 
indeed, j)aid before the time, and usually with 
large interest. The hero of the present story 
will furnish us with an example. 

There was once, in the year 1848, in the 
military hospital of a large town, which some 
reasons prevent my naming, a soldier called 

Fr.an 9 ois, l^elonging to the (the same 

reasons oblige me to be silent as to the num- 
ber of the artillery regiment which was then 
garrisoned in that town). Fran 9 ois, a native 
of a little village of Alsace, in the department 
of the Bas-Rliin, was lying sick in the hos- 
pital. The doctor who attended him mam- 

247 



248 THE STORY OP A PAIR OP BOOTS. 

tained that the extreme pleasure he felt at the 
idea of returning to his village (for Francois 
had obtained his dismissal) was the cause of 
the serious attack with which he had been 
seized. Excess in anything is a fault. Be 
that as it may, Frangois was as good a Chris- 
tian as he was a brave soldier. During the 
seven years he had passed in his regiment he 
had never been seriously reprimanded but 
once ; and that was for having given a sabre 
thrust to one of his comrades for speaking 
irreverently of sacred things. As for himself, 
he had long thought this blow, given in so good 
a cause, acceptable to God. 

The evening before his departure, when 
Fran9ois, now almost convalescent, was pre- 
paring to quit the hospital and return home, 
he perceived in one of the long corridors a 
stranger — a tall, robust young man, who, 
from fatigue in travelling, had been obliged 
to remain some days in the hospital. This 
stranger, named Thomassin, also intended 
leaving on the morrow, and his departure was 
at that moment the subject of conversation 
with the chaplain. 

Monsieur I’Abbe,^^ said he to the priest, 


THE STORY OF A PAIR OF BOOTS. 249 

“ I have recovered my health in this house ; 
complete the work of mercy by giving me a 
pair of shoes, for the rough roads have worn 
mine out. These shoes, which you may be 
good enough to give or obtain for me, will, 
perhaps, conduct me on the road to fortune.” 

I will willingly give you those that I wore 
in the confessional in the winter to keep me 
from the cold,” answered the abbe ; “ but they 
will not go on your feet : you are bigger than 
I am. But I will see — I will fetch them.” 

“Do not go. Monsieur I’Abbe!” cried 
Francois, approaching the speakers ; “ I have 
found what you Avant.” 

“ Where ? ” 

“ In my bag.” 

“ But do not you need them yourself? ” 

“ I only want one pair, and I have two. It 
is true, they are boots ; and if Monsieur, 
whose foot seems about my size, will permit me 
to offer them, they are noAV at his service.” 

The traveller willingly accepted so kind an 
offer ; and, giving his name to the generous 
soldier, he asked for his, and that of his coun- 
try and his village, saying, “ Who gives to 
the poor lends to God.” 


250 THE STORY OF A PAIR OF BOOTS. 

“ Which our Heavenly Father will return a 
hundredfold,” said the abbe. 

Early on the morrow the stranger and Fran- 
9ois, each with their bags at their back, sticks 
in their hands, and in complete travelling cos- 
tume, met accidentally in the chapel of the 
hospital. Both were good Christians ; and 
both, on the j^oint of commencing a long jour- 
ney, wished to put themselves under the pro- 
tection of Him whose powerful hand could 
preserv-e them from danger. 

Whilst Francois — his heart joyous and his 
purse light — journeys on, singing one of the 
songs of his childhood, let us follow the young 
traveller who is sadly leaving his country to 
push liis fortune among the gold mines of Cal- 
ifornia. The joyous cliild of Languedoc, 
Tliomassin, still young, had lost, with the last, 
member of his family, the modest heritage his 
dying father had left him. Carefully taught, 
by the care of the old cure of his village the 
first elements of a religious education, he had 
learnt later at school the art of draAving, by 
Avhich he would be aided in gaining an honest 
livelihood. Tliomassin might have been an 
artist, if he had not been dazzled by the golden 


THE STORY OF A PAIR OF BOOTS. 251 


dreams which pointed to California as a land 
of promise. Behold liim, then, launched on 
the road of enterprise, sad withal, but strong 
in health, well clothed, and above all, well 
shod. 

One of his countrymen, a friend of his child- 
hood, was mate in a ship at Havre ready to 
sail for the Californian El Dorado, and in this 
he purposed to embark. From the town where 
he was to Havre it was more than a hundred 
leagues; and a hundred leagues seemed a long 
way to the poor traveller, who, with slender 
purse, had no carriage but his legs at his dis- 
posal. Thomassin, nothing frightened at so 
great a distance, marched bravely on, eating 
one day the piece of bread economized from 
the last, and moistening it with water from a 
brook; receiving at night a hospitality paid 
for the next morning by a rude drawing rep- 
resenting the portrait or caricature, as it hap- 
pened, of the landlady. Travelling in this 
manner for fifteen days, our courageous youth 
arrived at Havre the evening before the ves- 
sel sailed, blis friend received him cordially, 
and soon installed him as assistant in the 
cook’s department. On the morrow they set 


252 THE STORY OF A PAIR OP BOOTS. 


sail, favored by a fine breeze ; and Thomassin, 
standing on deck, piously uncovered bis bead 
before tbe cross of Notre Dame de Grace, — 
tbe modest cbapel so dear to tbe mariner, that 
crowns tbe wooded bills of Hontleur. Jlis 
eyes full of tears, but bis heart beating bope- 
fully, be now addressed a last adieu to tbe 
shores of France. 


II. 

Let us pass over tbe incidents of a long 
voyage — tbe squalls, tbe tempests, tbe dan- 
gers, and tbe grumbling of tbe ship’s cook at bis 
assistant ; — let us jDass over all that, and intro- 
duce our voyagers to tbe harbor where they 
arrived in tbe early part of September, 1848. 
Thomassin, strong, vigorous, and gifted with 
great courage and energy, soon set to work, and 
bis undertakings, blessed by God, whom die 
never ceased to invoke night and morning, were 
crowned with success Prudent, economicnl, 
avoiding tbe seductions which smiled on bis 
path, and renouncing those pleasures on which 
so many of bis unhappy companions made ship- 
wreck, be saw himself, at tbe end of fifteen 


THE STOKY OF A PAIR OF BOOTS. 253 

months, the possessor of a considerable sum 
realized in gold. He was in fact a rich man. 

Thomassin, after offering fervent thanks to 
Him who liad blessed his labors, set out on his 
return to France. While he voyages under 
tlie mild rays of the star propitious to mari- 
ners — the Stella matutina — let us return to 
the other traveller, whom we left singing on 
the road to Alsace. 


III. 

Happier than his companion at the hospital, 
Francois, the artillery-man, had returned to 
his village, his old father, and his affectionate 
mother. But three days before his arrival the 
paternal house was devoured by flames, and 
his family at that moment were completely 
ruined. This sad event mingled a few bitter 
tears with those he shed on embracing his old 
parents ; but strong in adversity, with the 
strength that conies from above, he found at 
his heart words of hope and consolation. 

‘‘Reassure yourselves,” said he to the mem- 
bers of his family who were assembled around 
him ; “ God ^ill not abandon you. Let us 


254 THE STORY OF A PAIR OF BOOTS. 

fervently pray to ITim, and oiir house will be 
raised from its ashes; the hail will spare our 
harvest, and the sun will fertilize our vines. 
You will see.” 

Meantime, God sent to console him one of 
those sweet angels — a young and pious girl, 
whom he had called in former days his little 
sister, but was now to call his wife. 

The first care of Marianne — now Madame 
'Francois — was to raise from its ruins, with 
the money of her marriage-portion, the deso- 
late house of her new parents ; and as the hail 
spared the harvests, whilst the sun fertilized 
the vines, the family had hojies of being again 
well off. They had not, indeed, twenty 
crowns ; but they had paid all their debts, and 
Madame Francois had just given her husband 
a charming little girl as pretty as her mother. 
She was to be baptized on Saturday morning, 
and called Marie in honor of the godmother, 
Fran9ois’ young sister, and Josephine in honor 
of the godfather, an old comrade of the child’s 
father — an excellent man, lately retired from 
service in a neighboring village. 

The godfather was to come on Friday to 
pass the night at the parent’s house to be in- 


THE STORY OF A PAIR OF BOOTS. 255 


troduced to his goddaughter, and to be all 
ready for the time of the christening. Eiglit 
o’clock had struck on the village clock, and 
the brigadier had not yet arrived. The night 
was dark ; the north wind blew amongst the 
large trees of the neighboring forest ; and at 
intervals rain, mixed with hail, dashed against 
the windows of the house, where the happy 
family waited with an impatience, now amount- 
ing to uneasiness, as the church clock struck 
nine. Fran9ois could not keep quiet; he beat 
time with his fingers on the lattice-panes. 
His wife, seated in a large arm-chair, whose 
yellow stuff probably dated as far back as the 
reign of good King Dagobert, was devoutly 
reading a book of prayers. The grandfather, 
an old grenadier, was in the corner cleaning 
his gun ; the old grandmother, on her side) 
was washing the face of the child, and cover- 
ing it with kisses, saying, “Poor little angel ! 
how it resembles its father ! ” all new-born 
babes resemble their father — that every one 
knows. Marie, the young sister of Francois, 
was contemplating with emotion the colored 
portrait of a dragoon, in full uniform, framed 
in walnut-wood. 


256 THE STORY OF A PAIR OF BOOTS. 

‘‘ Decidedly Simon will not come this even- 
ing,” said Fran9ois, suddenly breaking the 
silence which for some moments had reigned 
in the room where the family were assembled ; 
“ the rain increases, the roads are frightful, 
and the sky black as an ink-bottle. Let us go 
to bed.” 

“ Yes, but it will soon be ten.” 

Let us wait till then.” 

At that instant a brio'ht flash of lii^htnins: 
lit up the sky, and jieals of thunder shook the 
house. The three women crossed themselves. 

“ Come, let us go to bed,” repeated Fran9ois, 
“ it has struck ten — Simon will not come ; ” 
and, wishing his mother and father .good- 
night, he was preparing to retire, when, all of 
a sudden, the gallop of a horse was heard in 
the distance. 

“ It is Simon’s horse,” said the old man, “ I 
recognize his pace.” 

“ More rapid than usual, because he is late.” 

The noise, approaching nearer and nearer, 
soon stoi^i^ed at the door. Fran9ois hastened 
to open it, and cried out, ‘‘ It is not he ! ” 

Instead of Simon, it was a tall stranger, 
wrapped in a large blue mantle, his face en- 


THE STOKY OF A PAIR OF BOOTS. 257 


cased in a thick black beard, and his head cov- 
ered with a glazed hat. 

“It is not he; that is true,” said the 
stranger ; “ but it is his representative. I am 
charged with this letter for you.” 

“In that case you are welcome,” rej^lied 
FranQois. “ Pray alight and enter the house.” 

While the old man conducted Simon’s horse 
to tlie stable, Fran9ois rapidly read the letter, 
which was as follows : — 

“My Good Old Comrade, — Pardon me 
if important reasons, that you will soon know, 
prevent my naming your child, and as it is 
necessary to have a godfather for your daugh- 
ter, I send another, also called Joseph, so that 
you will not have to change an iota of the 
names you agreed on. In this manner the lit- 
tle one and everybody will gain by it ; I alone 
shall lose the pleasure I promised myself in 
accepting one title more to your friendship. 
Adieu, my old friend, always yours, 

Simon.” 

“Marianne,” cried Fran9ois, after atten- 
tively reading this note, “ Offer Monsieur 


258 THE STORY OF A FAIR OF BOOTS. 

something to drink; — the best, you under- 
stand.” Then approaching the stranger, he 
took him by the hand, saying, “once more 
welcome, since you come on the part of my 
old fellow-comrade ; and pardon me if the 
hospitality we poor peasants have to offer is 
not worthy of you.” 

“ Make yourself easy,” answered the 
stranger ; “ I am not of high birth ; like your- 
self, I am the son of a simple husbandman, 
whose name to-day I am as proud to bear as I 
shall be to-morrow to give mine to your 
beloved child.” 

At eleven o’clock, the representative of 
brigadier Simon, well dried externally by a 
large wood-fire which had been relit on the 
hearth, and warmed internally by the contents 
of an old bottle of wine, asked permission to 
retire. 

“ Do as if you were at home,” said Fran- 
cois; and exchanging a second shake of the 
hand he conducted him to the chamber pre- 
pared for his friend Simon. 


THE STORY OF A PAIR OF BOOTS. 259 


IV. 

On the morrow the storm had completely 
ceased ; the sky was magnificent ; not a cloud 
was to be seen ; the countenance of the 
stranger, reflecting the happiness which illu- 
mined that of his new friends, was also 
serene. All was joy in the little village of 

; the church had the appearance of a 

fete ; and the bell sent forth its joyous notes. 
The bajitism took place at ten, and was im- 
mediately followed by a repast, which, to the 
friends of the family, is always indispensable. 
M. le Cure, seated in the place of honor, pre- 
sided on the occasion with much gayety ; the 
scene was an animated one ; the well-stocked 
cellar was not spared ; happiness in a village is 
never miserly ; the heart, they say, is always 
in the hand. Fran9ois, whose fine voice 
every Sunday at the chorister’s desk made 
the school-master, who was director-in-chief 
of the music, envious, was asked for a song. 

At first he begged to be excused, at last he 
said, “I will give you a little romance, that a 
comrade, who w^as ill from a fall, taught me 
in the hospital of ” ; and in a loud voice 


260 THE STOKY OF A PAIR OF BOOTS. 

lie sang one of those beautiful chansons of M. 
de Segur. 

Tiie stranger being invited in his turn, ex- 
cused himself, saying he had no voice. “ How- 
ever,” added he, “ as I ought to pay my reck- 
oning I will relate if you like between tlie fruit 
and the cheese a true history.” As soon as 
the dessert had been placed on a table-cloth 
of snowy whiteness, Simon’ s representative 
sjDoke as follows : — 

“ My story commences nearly two years and 
a half ago. A poor traveller coming from a 
distance, exhausted by fatigue, and emaciated 
by hunger, not having a sou in his jjocket or a 
sole to his foot, was obliged to stoj) at the 

hospital of the town of . As he was young 

and healthy some days’ rest soon set him up 
again. He wished to continue his journey; 
but, during his illness his purse had not re- 
filled, nor his shoes been resoled ; the road 
that he had to travel was long. What should 
he do? Should he leave it all to God? Yes, 
that’s what the poor traveller did, and the 
blessing of God came to his aid and sent him one 
fine morning a pair of new boots. A brave 
soldier who was about to quit the hospital at 


THE STORY OF A PAIR OF BOOTS, 261 


the same time, to return home, was on this 
occasion the instrument of God’s mercy. This 
man, named Fran9ois, is to-day the father of 
my god-daughter.” 

“ But how did you learn this story ? ” said 
Fran9ois, his face as red as a Montmorency 
cherry? “The poor traveller is dead, no 
doubt, from want in California, where he 
went to seek his fortune.” 

“I learnt it from himself, for he has not 
forgotten it,” said the stranger. 

“ Is he still alive ?” 

“He is, and what is more is rich, for he 
found the fortune he went to seek.” 

“ Where is he at this moment ? ” 

“ In your arms ! ” cried the stranger, press- 
ing to his bosom him whom he called his first 
benefactor. 

The sensation produced by this affecting 
scene can be better understood than ex- 
jDressed. 

“And this is why,” said a new-comer, 
entering the festive chamber; “this is why 
the ex-brigadier Simon yielded his rights to 
your friend. Do you understand me now, old 
comrade ? ” 


262 THE STORY OF A PAIR OF BOOTS. 

“You are come too late, Simon,” said 
Fran9ois, extending his hand to his old eom- 
panion-iri-arms. 

“It is never too late,” said Simon, “when 
we arrive in time to witness the happiness of 
our friends ; and while there remains a glass 
of wine on the table to drink their health.” 

V. 

“ My history is not finished,” resumed the 
rich stranger. “ The last words I pronounced 
on taking leave of the generous Fran9ois were 
these : ‘ Who gives to the poor, lends to God 
and the chaplain of the hospital added : ‘ Which 
our good God will repay a hundredfold,’ and 
He has sent me to-day, my dear Fran9ois, to 
pay his debts.” Saying this, he took out of 
his portfolio a packet of bank-notes, which he 
divided in the following manner : — 

“Twenty notes of a thousand francs for 
Fran9ois ; twenty notes of a thousand francs 
for Madame Fran9ois ; and twenty notes of a 
thousand francs for my god-daughter.” 

The worthy people would have refused this 
recompense from their grateful friend if the 


THE STORY OF A PAIR OF BOOTS. 263 


cur^ had not forced them to accept what he 
called the debt of the good God. 

At that moment the village postman brought 
a letter to Mademoiselle Marie ; it was dated 
from Rome. By turns pale and red with 
emotion, she hurriedly jDerused it ; and utter- 
ing a joyful cry announced to the company 
that Andre, the cavalier of the 11th dragoons, 
had quitted Rome, and embarked at Civita 
Yecchia, to return home for good. 

“Bravo, my children ! ” said the cure; “all 
is indeed happiness to-day,” and he added, 
whispering to Marie, “when shall the wed- 
ding be?” 

“ Ask my mother,” said she, blushing like a 
rose in May. 

“In a month,” answered the good old 
woman. 

“And I will pay the violins,” said the rich 
stranger, throwing on the table twelve bank- 
notes. 

“If you go on in this manner,” said Fran- 
9ois, “ you will keep nothing for yourself.” 

“But the most precious treasure of all, 
look, ” and opening with a gold key sus- 
pended from his neck, a box of ebony, richly 


264 THE STOEY OF A PAIR OP BOOTS. 

inlaid with mother of pearl and ivory, he took 
out a pair of old boots; ‘‘this,” said he, “is the 
foundation of all ; with these boots I have made 
my fortune.” 

The following year, about the same day, 
brigadier Simon presented at the baptismal 

font of the little church of a fine boy, the 

son of Madame Fran9ois, and whom his god- 
father promised to teach the military exercise 
when he was six years old. 

Fran9ois, the best of sons, the happiest of 
husbands, and the most tender father, is now 
mayor of his commune. Whenever he meets 
a beggar on the road, he never fails to give 
him charity, and murmur in a low voice these 
words, — 

“Who gives to the poor lends to the 
Lord.” 





IHE sad events which changed the desti- 
nies of France destroyed many a larger 
fortune than that of the hero of this story ; 
but it could not have reduced to destitution a 
more deserving family. At the time that 
Captain Gerbaut held an honorable rank in 
the army, Madame, his wife, kept the post- 
office in a provincial town. He was dismissed, 
and his wife lost her office. Whilst the fallen 
captain Avas uselessly seeking some humble 
employment his family, in the meantime, 
economized as much as possible. More than 
a year had passed, and their resources Avere 
nearly exhausted. Gerbaut, overwhelmed by 
these misfortunes, and discouraged by Avant 
of success, fell ill ; he Avould have died had 

265 


266 


THE STORY OP A WATCH. 


not liis wife, with tlie courage of despair, de- 
voted her days and nights to work as labori- 
ous as it was unprofitable. It was piteous to 
see such a feeble creature oppressed witli so 
many cares, fatigues, and anxieties. Gerbaut 
suffered all tlie tortures of a sensitive mind, 
and only supported the burden of life in tlie 
hope of sustaining his poor com|)anion, and 
finding means to provide for his family’s sub- 
sistence. 

Madame Gerbaut did all she could to hide 
their poverty from the eyes of the world. 
She imposed upon herself the most cruel pri- 
vations to keep up a decent ajipearance. This 
was less from shame at an honorable jioverty, 
than from personal dignity, and a desire not 
to afflict her husband and herself with the 
harrowing spectacle of their deep distress. 
Madame Gerbaut thought, too, and perhajis 
with reason, that pity is not a promoter of 
success, and that the more their misery was 
known the less chance her husband would 
have of obtaining emjdoyment. Their dwell- 
ing, therefore, was modest rather than poor; 
a scrupulous attendance to neatness and order 
excluded the idea of extreme misery. 


THE STORY OF A WATCH. 


267 


Tliough the captain was no longer young, 
he courageously resolved to undertake any- 
thing that came in his way. As he wrote a 
good hand, and was an excellent accountant, 
he occasionally obtained manuscripts to copy 
or accounts to make up ; but these resources 
were very uncertain. Nevertheless, this v’^ork 
raised some liope in his heart. He returned 
happy to his dwelling, when he brought the 
means of procuring his comi^anion some days 
of repose. The children also had their fetes, 
more delightful because they were so rare. 
With what happiness the poor father saw 
them jump and shout joyously around him! 
How affected he was in contemplating their 
little happy faces, when he could say on enter- 
ing, “Julie, Aglae, I have met with something 
good.” Then he displayed to their charmed 
gaze beautiful fruit, pretty cakes, and spark- 
ling bonbons ; round which they merrily 
danced before eating. 

But soon the future began to show itself 
under a more severe aspect to these young 
daughters of Captain Gerbaut ; they grew up 
and began to work, aiding their mother in 
making tapestry for the manufactory which 


268 


THE STORY OF A WATCH. 


furnished her with employment. All three 
carefully repaired the linen and clothes which 
still remained with them. Sad as was this 
occupation it employed them, and gave them 
the satisfaction of having performed a duty. 
Tlie captain was the most unhappy. His 
wife, knowing how accustomed he was to an 
active life, saw him with distress becoming a 
prey to inaction, and despair amounting almost 
to rage, at the idea of being not only useless, 
but a charge to his family. Every day she 
invented a new pretext for his leaving home; 
and to distract his thoughts, urged the neces- 
sity of some plan, some visits, giving him often 
a hoj^e which she had not herself. But this 
man, so brave before the enemy, showed a 
want of courage in exposing himself to refusal 
or humiliation ; he could not proclaim his pov- 
erty, and w^ould solicit with too much delicacy 
and discretion to succeed ; he was too proud 
to be importunate. Thus, he had kept up a 
friendship with some of his old companions in 
arms, particularly with a general, who was 
indebted to the empire for a splendid fortune. 
A cover was always laid for the captain at his 
abundant table. On that day Madame Ger- 


THE STORY OF A WATCH. 


269 


baut assisted at ber husband’s poor toilet. 
The reverses of fortune were not then felt. 
The children were more joyful than usual 
when they saw their father thus apparelled, 
and all believed themselves less miserable. 

However, each day made tliese miracles of 
economy more difficult. One Thursday (it 
was the captain’s fete day) Madame Gerbaut 
saw with inexpressible grief that the old black 
coat, so religiously preserved for great occa- 
sions, would soon refuse to serve its master. 
It would then be impossible to present himself 
at the house of the general. This little cir- 
cumstance, which recalled a long series of mis- 
fortunes, the term of which it would be im- 
possible to foresee, quite overcame the cour- 
ageous wife. She could not avoid weeping, as 
she repaired the button-holes and decorations 
of this coat, the witness of better days and 
sweeter hopes. She endeavored to smarten it 
up with a little ribbon which had many times 
served the same purpose. At length the cap- 
tain departed, and reached the abode of his 
entertainer. 

The general always remembered that he had 
been a soldier, and was not the man to meas- 


270 


THE STORY OF A WATCH. 


Tire his consideration by the value of a coat ; 
he had, besides, a real esteem for Captain 
Gerbaut, whose honorable character was appre- 
ciated by all the officers of his corps. The 
general’s party on this day consisted of a 
dozen choice companions. During dinner the 
conversation turned on industrial improve- 
ment. French activity had then begun to 
impart to the arts of peace some of the ardor 
it had lavished for fifteen years on the field of 
battle throughout Europe. 

The general happened to have a valuable 
piece of mechanism. It was a very curious 
watch, of great price, on account of the mul- 
tiplicity of its delicate wheel-work, and the sub- 
divisions of time indicated on its several faces. 
The bijou was passed in turn to each of the 
guests ; the conversation then changed, and 
after discussion on other topics, they returned 
to the drawing-room. 

On entering, the general remembered his 
watch, and, ringing for his valet, ordered him 
to take it from the table where it was left, 
and place it in safety. After a few moments 
the man returned, quite frightened ; he had 
not been able to find the watch. The general, 


THE STORY OF A WATCH. 


271 


much surprised, went with Baptiste to the 
dining-room, but Avas not more fortunate. 

“ Some one, M. le General, may perhaj^s 
have brought it by mistake to the drawing- 
room,” said Baptiste. 

“I do not think so; but it is easy to 
ascertain.” 

A new search was made, but with no better 
success. 

“ What I fear,” said the general, “ is that, 
through some carelessness, the w^atch may be 
injured or broken.” 

‘‘We will not leave this room till it is 
found,” said one of the guests in a serious 
tone. 

“ This decision is not fair,” laughingly an- 
swered a young man Avho, perhaps, had some 
other engagement for the evening; “it seems 
to me somewhat hard on the general’s part, 
and that it rather trespasses on our liberty. I 
propose a more certain and expeditious meas- 
ure ; — to let ourselves be searched.” 

A loud shout followed this proposition. 

“ Agreed ! agreed ! ” they all cried ; and the 
young man, giving himself up the first, in- 
sisted that the valet, in his office of douanier 


272 


THE STORY OF A WATCH. 


should make a strict examination of his 
pockets. 

Tlie general, who at first opposed this 
pleasantry, ended by laughing at it. Each 
new search furnished fresh subject for amuse- 
ment. The captain took little part in these 
jokes; lie joined in them with a constrained 
an 1 melancholy air, and kept himself in the 
background as much as possible, without 
being remarked. As the search proceeded he 
seemed more disturbed ; one would have 
thought he wished to elude his turn ; and per- 
haps he flattered himself he would be able to 
do so, in the midst of this noise and- con- 
fusion ; but it was not to be so. On the 
contrary, after all his companions had sub- 
mitted to this ordeal, they turned towards 
him with redoubled clamor, jokingly signaliz- 
ing liim as the culprit, since he came last. 

The captain, pale and uneasy, stammered 
forth some excuses, which were lost in the 
noise. They urged Baptiste to stricter sever- 
ity in this last examination. 

“Baptiste, this is the decisive moment!” 
cried one. “ Baptiste, be on your guard — 
we have our eyes on you ! ” said another. 


THE STOEY OF A WATCH. 


273 


‘‘Expose the criminal. Courage, Baptiste, 
the last chance is the best ! ” 

The valet advanced ; but Gerbaut, crossing 
his arms on his chest, declared with trembling 
voice, that unless by violence, no man should 
• lay hands on him. 

A j^rofound silence succeeded this declara- 
tion, when the general advanced, saying, “ The 
captain is right ; this childish play has lasted 
too long. I demand an exemption both for 
him and myself.” 

Gerbaut, unable to speak, scarcely to su2> 
port himself, thanked his friend by a grateful 
look, and left the room to conceal the shame 
and embarrassment of his position. 

The general, after his departure, made no 
further remark, and the guests imitated his 
reserve ; but every face expressed curiosity, 
and their host himself seemed uneasy and 
thoughtful. Gerbaut walked some distance 
before returning home ; he wished to be 
alone, and to calm the agitated feelings to 
which he was a prey. Ilis mind was con- 
fused, and it ivas with great difficulty he could 
arrange his ideas and form at last some 
decided resolution. It was late wdien he 


274 


THE STORY OP A WATCH. 


returned home, and his wife, who was eagerly 
expecting him, could scarcely restrain a cry 
of alarm on seeing her husband enter j^ale and 
disordered. 

“What has happened?” she exclaimed. 

“ Nothing, nothing,” said Gerbaut, sinking 
upon a chair, exhausted with fatigue and emo- 
tion, and placing on the table a little parcel. 
“ This has cost me very dear,” he added 

In vain Madame Gerbaut, seeking to calm 
him, wished to know the particulars. 

“ To-morrow,” answered he ; “ to-morrow 
we shall see ; I will go out early. Leave me, 
and rest easy ; to-morrow I will tell you all.” 

In the morning the captain took the road to 
the hotel where he had dined the evening be- 
fore ; and though he walked resolutely for- 
ward an inexpressible sorrow agitated his 
poor mind. How should he present himself? 
How would he be received? Should he go 
alone? Would it be better to write ? What 
might it not cost him to confess ? It seemed 
impossible to support the weight wdiich al- 
most crushed him. He tried a hundred dif- 
ferent ways of commencing his terrible con- 
fession. With what words should he accost 


THE STORY OF A WATCH. 


275 


the general, to prevent an accent, a look, that 
could never be 2:)ardoned or forgotten? The 
reception from the valet de cliambre he cared 
nothing for ; with him ail explanation was iiy.- 
possible. Gerbaut was nearly mad when he 
arrived. It was not Baptiste he met, but 
another domestic, who went forward to an- 
nounce him. He knows nothing, he thought. 
What anguish ! Will the general receive me? 
Yes. He is ushered in. Gerbaut dared not 
raise his eyes. He assures himself that the 
door is closed ; then, without hesitating, in a 
deep and rapid voice, like a man who is ac- 
complishing a cruel sacrifice he began : — 

‘‘ I cannot deceive myself, general,” he said ; 
“ I well know how strange was my conduct 
yesterday evening, and the suspicions to which 
it gave birth; I can no longer support the 
idea, and cost me what it may, I am come to 
confess to you the extent of my misfortunes, 
and the humiliation to which I am reduced.” 

The general, who at first endeavored to in- 
terrupt, now let him proceed ; and Gerbaut, 
becoming by degrees more excited, contin- 
ued : ‘‘ My misery is at its height ; there 
lies all my excuse. I am a burden to those 


276 


THE STORY OF A WATCH. 


whom I ought to support. A wife, an inde- 
fatigable mother, can scarcely, by incessant 
labor, obtain daily bread for our poor children. 
I only partake with shuddering of this bread 
of affliction.” 

“ Captain ! ” interrupted the general, quite 
overcome. 

But Gerbaut heard and saw nothing ; if he 
had ceased be could not have finished, perhaps, 
and the most painful j^art yet remained to be 
told. Hurried on by despair, he continued: 
“ I reproached myself for having partaken of 
a better repast than those who shared my 
cruel destiny. Seated at your table, where 
this heart-rending picture pursued me, I yielded 
to the irresistible desire of carrying to my 
poor children some portions of what was 
offered me. That was my position yesterday 
evening, and I should have died of shame if 
your guests and household had been witnesses 
of the abasement to which poverty had caused 
me to descend ; but in your eyes, general, I 
could not rest with the suspicion. ” Ger- 
baut’s voice faltered, and he spoke with less 
volubility. 

The general answered : “ Thirty honorable 


THE STORY OF A WATCH. 


277 


years, my excellent friend, have placed you 
above all suspicion. That answers for every* 
thing;” and he showed to the astonished eyes 
of Gerbaiit the missing watch. 

“ It is for me to ask your pardon,” con- 
tinued the general. I had, without thinking, 
placed it in my pocket, where I found it in 
the evening, in presence of the amazed BajD- 
tiste.” 

“ If I had but known,” murmured Gerbaut, 
petrified. 

“ Regret nothing you have said,” answered 
the general, extending his hand to his friend ; 
“ I have now learnt what you ought never to 
have hidden from me ; and it is fortunate that 
the fear of a disgraceful supposition has urged 
you to make known the misery you are endur- 
ing. It is a friend Avho has listened to you ; 
you shall soon hear from me again.” 

Gerbaut went home less agitated but still 
all in confusion. Some days after this inci- 
dent he received another invitation to dine at 
the general’s table. The guests were those of 
the last visit. The veteran did not fail to 
relate his inexcusable absence of mind with 
regard to the watch ; and the captain, placed 


278 THE STOKY OF A WATCH. 

near him at table, found in the folds of his 
napkin, a nomination to an honorable and 
easy post, which would henceforth secure to 
himself and his family the means of a com- 
fortable existence. 





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